


There Are Monsters In These Woods

by DoilySpider



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Gaslighting, Multi, Tags May Change, canon-typical manipulation & power imbalance, graphic violence against insects, hope you like polyamory, more grimm's than disney
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 98,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoilySpider/pseuds/DoilySpider
Summary: Once there was a prince by the name of Martin, and his stepfather king very much wanted him dead.Once there was a creature known to the townsfolk as the Beast of Eyes, who wanted nothing more than to die by a just hand.There was an exiled prince, a magic mirror, a scholar, a huntswoman, and a pair of traveling bards.Once there was a notion of something like "freedom", but none of them had known the like for a very long time.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Gerard Keay/Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 671
Kudos: 1088





	1. I: Prince Charming

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will update as often as I can manage it around the chaos we are all currently living in. I would LIKE to say it will update weekly, but... sudden, unexpected personal or social upheaval may change that.
> 
> I don't know how graphic any of the violence is actually going to BE but I tagged for it just in case!
> 
> Tagging for individual characters would be unwieldy; expect appearances by most major recurring characters.
> 
> There is a map of the kingdoms. I may try to figure out how to post it in the future.
> 
> Design of monster!Jon inspired by art by @pancakehandz on Twitter.
> 
> "A love triangle is the coward's polycule" -My Friend Amr

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom by the sea, overcast and grey, but beautiful in the way a cathartic cry can be beautiful. This was the Kingdom Blackwood. And in this kingdom there lived a Prince. He was soft of form, gentle of face, and warm of heart, and his name was Martin. Martin’s mother, the Queen Regent, ruled her kingdom in an apathy and dispassion that bordered on malice, and ruled her home in much the same. Perhaps this was why her husband, the King, abdicated his throne, never to return, leaving his only son behind to weather her scorn as their kingdom weathered the many storms which battered their coast. He did so of course in good nature, as he did all things in good nature--at least to her face. 

It is a wearying thing, to raise a son on one’s own, let alone rule a kingdom. Weariness that, of course, the Queen made secret to no one, least of all her son. What kindness then, and what good fortune, that House Lukas of the Outlying Islands should offer up an eligible suitor. Fortuitous, and some might say opportunistic. But it was House Lukas that watched over the bay from their gloomy, isolated cliffside homes, and it was House Lukas that helmed the crown’s navy, and so who was the Queen to decline their generosity. 

That was how Admiral Peter Lukas found himself King Consort.

He made a ghost of himself in court, and yet his whispers always seemed to find their way to the right ears. The Queen was no more interested in keeping control of him than she was in governing her kingdom or supporting her son. Truly, it was even easier for her to ignore the Prince now that he was a man. Prince Martin made his days fussing about the castle, asking after the staff and the townsfolk, doing favors and lending coin, for these were the people who had been there for him when his family had not. He was much beloved by the subjects, and he would have made a fine King if he’d ever been given the chance.

Yet when the Queen Regent passed to little fanfare and even littler mourning, it was Peter Lukas who ascended the throne. It was Peter Lukas who found himself King Regent. All the while Martin was minding the small folk and staying out of his mother’s hair, the whispers of his stepfather had twisted the laws of the land, changed the age of inheritance. The Prince might be a man, they said, but he is no king, too weak, too gentle, too naive. “This is surely for the best,” Peter assured Martin, in that genial manner of his. “The crown is a heavy thing to bear, and surely your neck and shoulders are not yet fit to bear it.”

Martin was not so naive as to take him to task on his word.

But with every passing year, the age was raised, the bar pulled further and further away from him. Not ready, they would say, always not ready. 

Often Martin wondered exactly what would prove that he was ready to take his crown.

He would in many ways regret asking.

“A king must be brave, Young Martin,” Peter said, sat astride the throne. He always looked so out of place there, his sea legs unable to find an comfortable position in this all too terrestrial seat. “A king must be ready to act decisively for the people, and to put himself on the line.”

“Like you do skulking in the shadows?” Martin muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. Most would probably miss it, being that most in the court deferentially avoided looking directly at the king, as per his request. Martin could manage it more than most, but when he caught that gaze he looked away.

“Do you know of the Beast of Eyes?” Peter asked.

Martin’s shoulders sank and his chest clenched. “Yes,” he said, barely audible, in a near invisible softness that almost endeared him to the king sometimes.

How could he not know? How could one live in the embrace of the Blackwood, the forest which gave the kingdom its name, and not know of the Beast of Eyes? Whispers of it echoed across the towns and villages, seeping into the earth and walls and permeating the land with a quiet dread. They said it stalked the woods, lean and sharp, stalking its prey in near perfect silence. It would always, always see you before you saw it, and by then it was surely too late. It fed on your fear, drew it to the surface. Those lucky enough to get away would say that the nightmares were neverending, the terror haunted their footsteps through the days. Some never came home at all.

“I want you to slay it,” Peter said.

Martin’s head jerked up to meet Peter’s eyes again, straining his neck. “What?”

“I. Want you. To slay it,” Peter repeated, ever so patiently. “It is a menace to the people, a danger to our kingdom, and if you can overcome this trial of courage to protect them, surely you must be fit to lead.”

“But Pe-- but my king,” Martin ventured, wringing his hands. “Does the creature not hypnotize its prey into paralysis with its many terrible eyes?”

Peter smiled wide. “Then I suppose you had best be careful.”

Martin was fitted for sword and mail, with a fine cuirass bearing the crest of the royal house, a house which Martin was no longer sure who it truly belonged to. He was sent off to a great deal of ceremony, the people rallying for him in the streets, and it pressed a greater weight down on his chest and shoulders than any armor could. How could he let them down, when he saw so many hopeful eyes watch him go?

The Blackwood formed the eastern border of the kingdom, veiling it from the barren No Man’s Land, a fallow and forgotten place, and from the Far Kingdoms. From the outside you might be forgiven for thinking the Blackwood earned its name from the deep umber hues of the trees that populate it. It takes but a few steps in to find that the close-set trunks and interwoven branches shroud the region in a perpetual twilight. Even in the rare clearing, the canopy always seems to arch forth to compensate, lest you remember the love of the sun. In some places you might find the crumbling foundations and traces of walls from civilizations long since lost. The wood swallows much that breaches it, even the light.

If only Martin could say he stepped into its jaws with confidence and his head held high. He wished he could say he did not hesitate.

Even the fog and the gloom that often hung over the Kingdom Blackwood could not prepare Martin for the Blackwood proper. Each step he took was methodical and deliberate, testing the ground for its willingness to let him pass. Slow was his progress, not steady nor cautious so much as meek. 

He wondered if the king was right. Perhaps he was unfit.

When nightfall came, Martin only knew by the turning from birdsong to crickets and the mournful dirges of owls. He found a sheltered grove in which to make camp, setting his tent between two trees and lighting a fire in the clearing. The one thing he was grateful for was that his childhood had given him more than enough training in being comfortable being alone.

It came for him so silently. There were no warning signs. Not the crack of a branch nor the slightest footfall, it tread so lightly. It was already there by the time he knew.

Martin had been gazing down on his fire, cooking up a meager pot of broth, when he became keenly aware of no longer being alone. He glanced up over their dancing flames, startled, and saw it cast in their glow, standing stalk still, watching him.

After all he’d heard, the tales whispered past his ears, he did not know what he was expecting. Some hulking beast with great rending jaws, or a gnarled, towering thing with hooked claws.

It was a man. Or near enough, by shape and stature. He had ragged dark hair and prying dark eyes--just the two, at least, from this angle. He was dressed in rags, and Martin was sure that what he saw before him was simply a particularly light-footed traveler. But when Martin opened his mouth to ask if he needed help, the creature spread its wings. Moth-like they were, mottled and scaled. Thin and papery yet somehow sturdy still. Their breadth spanned greater than the man’s modest height. And they were covered, absolutely covered, in eye spots.   
  
Martin fumbled frantically for the hilt of his blade, laid on the ground beside him, but no sooner had he laid his fingertips on it than he found himself frozen, completely transfixed under the gaze of those false eyes.

The fight was already over before it had begun. Martin wondered, his heart in his throat, if there would be any who would mourn his passing. Or would they simply be glad to be rid of their pitiful, useless prince.

“Tell me, tender prince,” the beast said, his voice a low rumble that Martin could feel in his bones, “what has brought you to these woods?”

Before Martin decided whether or not to answer, he already found himself saying, “I am here to kill you.” He prepared himself then for the blow, closing his eyes and tensing up. But the blow did not come.

At first, there was only silence. Then, the creature let out a weak laugh. When Martin opened his eyes once more, he found the beast on his knees, head bowed, wings draped around him like a cloak. “Go on then.”

A trap. Surely, it must be a trap. Martin lifted his sword gingerly, winced at the glint of the fire across the sharp and polished steel. He advanced on the creature, holding his weapon out at arm’s length, as far as he could, point honed on his target like a compass. 

The beast did not move an inch until Martin stood directly before him, shadow cast long over him by the fire. The beast reached up, and Martin flinched, but the creature only gently coaxed the tip of the blade down, guiding it into place just above his heart. “Here,” he said, “thrust here, and your strike should be true. Make it quick, and make it count. I am weary of pretenders toying with me like they think they know how to kill me.”

Martin frowned, and did not budge. “Aren’t you going to fight me?”

“No,” said the beast. “And tighten your grip, you damned fool. You’ll never make a clean cut like that.”

Instead, Martin lowered the sword, ever so slightly. He’d come out here to fight, perhaps to die, likely to die if he were honest with his odds. What he had not come out for was a summary execution. That was his stepfather’s business, not his. “And if I don’t want to?”

The creature lifted its dark eyes then, peeking out between strands of his wavy hair, and Martin found himself taken by just how they shone. This time he was sure he couldn’t blame it on any supernatural power. “Oh, for your sake I certainly hope you do,” he said. “I have seen inside you, Prince Martin. You are a good man. They’re rare, good men, do you know that?”

Martin’s breath hitched in his throat. He wasn’t sure which bit caught him more off guard, so he fumbled for his words and settled on the first question to tumble out, which was, “How did you know my name?” Which seemed a touch more ridiculous than some of the other things he could’ve asked. 

“I am burdened with knowing so many things,” the creature said, and shrugged. “I also know, for one, that if you return from these woods without my head, harm will come to you. And I can see that you are good, and I do not want that. So I’d rather die by your hand than by the sort who usually come for me. Which is why I tell you now, if you wish to kill me truly, you must destroy my heart. You’ll not be able to decapitate me until you do.” He reached down, with hands that Martin could now see were clawed, if ever so slightly, but otherwise all too human, and readjusted the angle of Martin’s sword. “Go on.”

Getting a better look at his face now and those thin hands, Martin could see how littered with scars he was. He wasn’t sure why this surprised him. Wasn’t this supposed to be a monster?

Was this a monster?

“What does the Beast of Eyes care for my wellbeing?” Martin insisted. The blade was growing terribly heavy in his hand and his arm ached for bearing it.

The creature scoffed in reply. “Is that what they’re calling me these days?” he said. “Is that the best they could come up with? Pitiful. Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.” He shrugged. “I suppose you could say I care because… I am tired, so very tired, of cruelty.”

“Of the cruelty you have done?” Martin asked, uncertainly, skeptically. 

“In part.”

“They tell me you feed on the miseries of others,” Martin prompted.

The beast smiled bitterly. “All too true. I wish I could say it weren’t so.”

Martin squared his shoulders, trying to remember his resolve, remember why he came. “And they tell me that you steal away travelers never to let them return.”

This gave the creature pause. It raised a brow. “Now that,” he said, “is not me. But perhaps you could take that up with your king regent when you return to him with my head?”

At this Martin could not help but lose his grip on the blade, and backed off with a start. “What?”

“And that is precisely why you  _ must _ kill me,” said the beast. He plucked the sword off the ground and offered it back to its owner, hilt first. “It is not safe for you to let me live.”

Martin’s heart was hammering. If what the beast was implying was true, and deep down Martin had always suspected it, he wasn’t so sure even coming back with the creature’s head would spare him. “I… can’t. I cannot kill an unarmed opponent who will not so much as raise a claw or blade to me in turn. It isn’t just.”

The beast sighed deeply, and cast the sword at Martin’s feet. “He will kill you, you know. He will end your dear life in exchange for your mercy.”

“Then let him,” Martin spat. “Better he kill me than I do his wretched bidding for him.”

Something twisted in the creature’s face at those words. He shook his head, and his broad, thin wings flitted against his back. Martin could hear their flicking like the rustling of pages. “Oh, no no no,” said the beast. “This is…” He swallowed, then rolled up his tattered sleeve and held out his arm. “If you will not take my head, then take my hand. Tell him my head was destroyed in battle. It may buy you some time.”

“I won’t maim you either!” Martin cried, staring into the palm of that desperately outstretched hand.

The creature gave him a twisted grin. “Oh, I’ve had worse. It will grow back, I promise you that. This is a willing trade, I offer you. My hand to spare your life. For now.”

It still didn’t make a lick of sense to Martin. This was meant to be a wretched, cold and uncaring monster. And it wasn’t strictly speaking human, that was sure. But if it cared so much for his life, then could he call it a monster? No human being in Martin’s life had ever cared this much before. Cared enough to give life and limb, on first meeting, on first impression. Martin took a deep breath to reel in his trembling as he picked back up his sword. “Is this really all just because… what… you see goodness in me?” he said. 

The beast sat in the dirt by the fire, and laid his arm out over a stump like a cutting block, calm and in repose. “Goodness in a man who could be king,” said the beast. “And I would see you king, Prince Martin of Blackwood. Oh yes. Because the longer we live under kings like King Peter, the longer we see more of… well, horrors like me.” 

Martin nipped his lip, lining up the edge of the blade against the creature’s burn-scarred wrist. It was so heavy and so finely honed, it began to draw blood even resting there. If this caused the beast any pain, however, its body and face betrayed no sign of it. Martin watched him a moment, watched the way he braced himself and measured his breaths. The way he seemed so well-practiced at being hurt. And how human he looked, in spite of the wings, the claws, his jet black eyes. “Do you… have a name?”

“You said they called me the Beast of Eyes, yes?” His gaze remained transfixed on the blade, and the place it would strike.

Martin steadied his grip. “Yes but… do you have a name you prefer to be called?”

This was what finally made the creature flinch. “I…” He considered a moment, fingers clenching and relaxing. “I used to be Jon,” he said. “I think I would like to be Jon again. At least, to more people than I currently am. More people who… who don’t…” He closed his eyes and forced himself to settle again. “Jon. If you like.”

Martin lifted the blade, ever so slightly. “Jon is a person’s name,” he remarked.

“As I said, if you like.”

Martin nodded, just once, and raised the blade high. “Jon, I am sorry.” He brought it down at full force, and Jon’s pained wail echoed between the trees, silencing the night song of crickets and owls under its wake. 

Jon. Jon was a person’s name. Martin collected the hand, and he watched the beast flee into the woods, losing sight of him far sooner than he’d thought possible. Losing sight of him before he said goodbye. Jon was a person’s name.

Jon was a person.


	2. II: The Mage's Apprentice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey how about that Season 5 trailer, huh? 
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I'm releasing this chapter a few days early because everything is chaos and nothing matters. Have fun.
> 
> The content warnings start really kicking in here.
> 
> Shoutouts: thanks to Merrilee, my beta reader, sounding board, and cheerleader.
> 
> Thanks to @SzaszDoodles on Twitter for drawing me some beautiful fanart! Go check them out.

There once was a man by the name of Jonathan Sims, and he wanted to learn magic more than anything. He lived in a small village perched on the edge of the Blackwood, in a modest cottage, with a cat and his betrothed, and he was happy, more or less. Happy, yes, but not content. Never content.

Once, when he was very small, he had lived with his grandmother in a different village, further north. That village had been ravaged by giant spiders, and he himself barely escaped being eaten alive. Ever since the town was abandoned, overrun by cobweb and scuttling things that hid in rotting barns and alcoves. Precocious child that he was, he could see how caught off guard all the adults had been, no matter how many placating reassurances they tried to coo to him. A spider is not a fast moving thing, especially not at that scale. No one should have failed to be ready for it. Jon resolved that he would never allow himself to be waylaid by ignorance. He would learn and he would know as much as he could. 

He read voraciously all his life, so of course he wound up promising his hand to a storyteller. She was a bard by the name of Georgie, and she told tales of myth and monsters in the tavern and the square for her coin. He appreciated that about her, but what he really loved was that when he thought himself into a circle she could always pull him back onto the straight path with a few sharp, quick words. 

The one thing she could never quite talk him out of was wanting to learn magic. He was sure, so sure, that if he could just learn a bit of defensive magic, he could protect his village and protect his home from the attacks of wild monsters. Yet practitioners of magic were few and far between, and they guarded their secrets fiercely. Probably to keep that kind of power from falling into the wrong hands, he supposed. But his hands were ready, and his hands were able, and his heart and his mind needed it. Oh, his mind needed it so desperately. But no tome, no scroll would betray a word of what he sought to him.

It was a mercy as it was that Jon happened to live near a library outpost. Few villages were lucky enough to have proximity to a library, and his was one so fortunate. He would spend entire days poring over their collection. While he learned a great deal of the history of the Kingdoms, of their legends, of their flora and fauna, there were no secrets of magic to be beheld there.

After another particularly frustrating dead end, Jon was sourly passing a stack of books back to the librarian, who looked him up and down and asked, “Perchance, have you considered reaching out to the Mage Magnus?”

“Reclusive, isn’t he?” Jon asked, drumming his fingers on a dusty book cover.

The librarian slid it out from under his hand. “Often, yes,” they said, “but I’ve heard a rumor he is in search of a new apprentice, since the last one abandoned their post.”

There are few in the Kingdoms who have escaped knowing, in one way or another, of the Mage Magnus. Tales of the Mage Magnus go back generations, centuries, and while some whispered that the man had found the secret to immortality itself, Jon knew that was preposterous. Surely it was a title, passed down from master to apprentice in a long chain. After all, he’d heard stories of sorcerers by other names--James the Wright, Elias of House Bouchard, and so forth--which were all still attributed to the Mage Magnus in the end. It was a title. Nonetheless, each person who had ever borne the name Magnus seemed possessed of an immense talent for magic and a wealth of arcane knowledge that made Jon boil with envy. So the idea, the very idea that the current Mage Magnus might be taking on a new apprentice? That this apprentice could be him, and he might become heir to such knowledge?

Reaching him would be no small task, however. To get to the Mage’s Tower, one would have to cross the entire Blackwood, and trek across the mires of No Man’s Land too. There the Tower of Magnus stood in isolation, brooding over the barren landscape and sparse settlements of stubborn free peoples who refused to budge. Jon could only assume he valued the solitude to protect his secrets and work in peace. If the rumors were true, Jon wanted to be sure before risking life and limb to reach him, only to be turned away from this private place. 

Jon drafted up an inquiry. He worded and reworded it three times, hoping to come off professional, but not dispassionate. Interested, but not desperate. Finally he simply grew tired of writing and supposed what he had would have to be enough. That evening he went to a courier, and sent off his missive with one of their sea eagles, for he had no eagle of his own to send.

It was a shock to him then when the Mage Magnus’ own personal merlin came to perch on Jon’s very own windowsill with a reply. The response was simple, but one line.  _ If you can make it here, it is meant to be. _

“No,” Georgie said, strong, firm, and wielding the small scroll back at Jon like a dagger.

Jon snatched it back from her hand and clutched it to his chest. “Georgie, this is everything I have ever wanted! You know that!”

“And if you get killed in the Blackwood, you’ll never have it,” Georgie snapped. “Jon, this is a fool’s errand. You’re a small man, you’ve never hunted nor seen combat, and now you want to traverse a dangerous forest and a wasteland alone, to reach a place you’ve never been, to meet with a man you’ve never met. You’ll get yourself killed, Jon. I can’t support this.” 

“I have a map, a compass, and a rapier. I’m quick on my feet, and I know how to climb. I’ll keep to the best known trails. I won’t be the first to make it through the Blackwood.” Jon took a deep breath and twisted the paper in his hands. “Georgie, please understand. I feel my entire life has been building up to this. This opportunity. I don’t feel I have any choice but to take it.”

“And when you talk like that, I already feel like I’m losing you,” Georgie said. Her eyes were hot with anger but her voice wavered with the tears hidden just behind. 

Jon sighed. He walked up and slipped his arms around his betrothed and pulled her close. “I promise you, I will be safe. If I ever feel like I’m not safe anymore, I’ll turn around and come home. When I get there, I’ll send Magnus’ merlin to let you know I’ve arrived in one piece.” He took her face in both his hands and said. “It won’t be forever. I promise I’ll come home to you someday.” And he pressed to her lips the last kiss he would ever give her.

By morning he was gone, with pack and sword and all the determination he could fit in his body.

At the time it seemed like the journey through the Blackwood would be the most harrowing part of his life. Finding undergrowth and small caves to hide in, cutting through bramble, running for his life from dire wolves and chimeras, and subsisting off meager hardtack and dried meat. By the time he breached the far side and saw daylight proper again, he was half-starved, beaten and sore, but he still had a couple days of travel yet before reaching the tower.

He encountered on the way a village of free people. No Man’s Land was dotted with small settlements, some nomadic and some permanent, of peoples who swore to no crown. Some were traveling mercenaries and sellswords, ready to fight for whoever would pay them. Some were cultural remnants of fallen cultures, clinging to scraps of abandoned nations and lost faiths. These folk were some of the like, hailing from a kingdom gone so long that even they did not remember its name. The people Jon met there made it no secret they thought he was a fool for making this journey alone, but they gave him fresh bread and water from their well guarded spring, and sent him on his way. Later he would look back and wonder, had they looked worried about him as he set off for the final leg towards the tower?

You see the Mage’s Tower far before you’re anywhere near it. It is the tallest landmark for miles. That isn’t to say it is remarkably taller than any other tower Jon had seen in his life, it is simply that the surrounding scrublands are flat and dry and naked of trees, a far cry from the Blackwood he’d left behind. But with every step closer Jon felt a rising hope, almost giddiness. It was here, the answer to his life’s calling.

When first he rapped his knuckles on the heavy oaken door, he almost grew faint. He did wonder a bit at the absence of a proper knocker, or a pull cord for a bell, especially given a building this size. But no sooner had he knocked than the door flung open, and the Mage Magnus stood there expectantly. He was a willowy man, foppish in dress Jon had to admit, but dignified in bearing. He wore a long emerald velvet cloak, very fine, and Jon wondered where he had gotten it. He also looked much, much younger than Jon had expected. “Jonathan Sims?” the mage said.

“Y-yes,” Jon choked out, and cursed himself for not sounding more confident. So he drew in a deep breath, straightened himself up, and tried again in his best dry, academic demeanor. “I am here to pledge myself to your service and learn from your years of wisdom, Mage Magnus.”

“Call me Master Jonah, if you are to be my apprentice,” said the Mage. There was the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips, but he did not smile, not quite. “And you are to be my apprentice, Jon. I can already see the promise in you. You are exactly what I have been looking for.”

Jon’s heart swelled to hear it. 

Much of Jon’s early learning was rote and dry, a great deal of reading on history and theory and tradition. It was stuff that might weary a lesser student, but Jon’s eagerness extended to academia as well as practice. Jon also did a lot of the grunt work, of course. He sorted Jonah’s grimoires and tomes, catalogued his writings, went out into the fields to cut herbs and gather other such reagents. He scrubbed cauldrons, polished ritual daggers, did all he was asked. In exchange, he was allowed free reign of Jonah’s library, to read all that he wished, and free reign indeed of all of the tower, save for Jonah’s private quarters alone, locked behind the green door at the top of the tower.

Of course, Jon sent out a merlin with a message to Georgie, just as he had promised, and every day he eagerly awaited her reply. At least, he hoped she wasn’t too mad to respond to him, but every day he went without hearing from her, he couldn’t help but wonder. To distract himself, he threw himself headlong into his work.

“I think it is time,” Jonah addressed Jon one day as he was cleaning out vials. “I believe you are prepared for something more practical. I require your assistance with a ritual, Jon.”

Jon lit up, and nearly dropped the crystal decanter he was handling. “I am ready for whatever you require of me, Master Jonah.”

At that Jonah smiled the widest Jon had ever seen. “We are going to summon a familiar, Jon.”

Jon had some faint and fuzzy awareness of the workings of familiars from his readings. They were beasts, animal or monster, enchanted to do their master’s bidding. They could aid in spellwork or perform chores. and often had some minor magical abilities. They could be extant animals bound with magic, or wholly created by ritual alone. Jon was fascinated to see it in practice.

When the moon was full and shone bright and sharp through the tower windows, Jon met Jonah in his study, where all his practical enchanting was done. The cauldron was already bubbling when he arrived, candles lit all about. No sooner had Jon set foot in the room than Jonah thrust a long wooden ladle into Jon’s hand. “Stir,” he said. “Evenly, clockwise, while I distribute the reagents. Do not pause.”

Jon nodded once, firmly, and clutched the ladle to his chest in solemn oath. He took his position and began to stir.

Jonah fetched up a mortar and pestle, where he had already ground some herbs, and sprinkled them evenly into his brew. “This will be,” he remarked, “my fifth attempt. But I have a good feeling about this. With you, I think, it will finally go right.”

“What makes you say that?” Jon said, focusing hard on maintaining his rhythm, though he could not help the flicker of pride he felt in the back of his mind.

“None of my other apprentices have had your fortitude,” Jonah said. He fetched a jar full of some unknown ichor, uncapped it, and swirled it into the spinning waters.

Jon coughed and sputtered at the acrid scent and had to turn his head, hoping he had not faltered. “W-well I am honored.”

“As you should be,” Jonah said. He took a small glass vial and gently dripped its contents in. It seemed a small addition, and yet with it the waters shone. “This is my proudest undertaking, Jon. My finest offering.”

Offering? Jon tried not to let the word choice distract him from his work. “So, what manner of creature do you intend to summon, Master Jonah?”

“I was thinking… perhaps a moth.” Jonah plucked a small wooden box up off the shelf. He opened it gently, and inside were a few large, dead moths, whose delicate bodies he cast into the boiling, gleaming water.

Jon frowned, brows furrowed, and watched them dissipate into the brew, dissolving as easily as sugar. “Forgive me, Master Jonah, but do you not think that a moth is… a bit too small to be of much service?”

Jonah rounded the cauldron, and peeked into the waters. “On its own, yes. But in this particular instance, a moth will do perfectly.” He clapped a hand on Jon’s shoulder, and smiled at him in pride. Jon basked in it for just a moment. “Are you ready to see it, Jon?”   


“I am.” Jon took a deep breath. At this point he felt completely lost, hypnotized in the swirling waters.

“Yes,” Jonah sighed. His voice was dripping with satisfaction. “You are. And I do believe my master will be pleased with your sacrifice.”

Jon couldn’t help himself. He dropped the ladle. “What?”

In one swift, fluid motion, Jonah shoved Jon by the shoulder, and he toppled straight in.

Jon screamed, the boiling waters claiming him. Frantically he scrabbled to climb out of the pot, but Jonah pressed the lid down over top of him, weighed it down, trapped him. Jon wailed, clawing at it, feeling the heat scald his flesh to the core. He was boiling alive, but no, not just that. He could feel himself breaking down, bit by bit, melting into the potion like butter. He wished he’d had some poignant dying thoughts, to have the presence of mind to feel betrayed, or to grieve for his betrothed, who he’d never see again. But the only thing that could cross his mind as he collapsed completely into the brew was  _ it hurts, it hurts, it hurts _ . Soon enough the centripetal motion of the liquid blended him together with it so completely he could not even think that. He only had the base, primitive instinct that he was dying. That he was gone.

Imagine his shock then when he woke up. He came too with a cough and a gasp and a sputter, lying on the cold stone floor. The room was unfamiliar, barrenly appointed, save for a mirror. A mirror and a green door.

He was on the other side of the green door.

Jon raised up his shaking hands, because after all he felt he could scarce believe he still had them. This was a mistake, because where once he had fingernails, he now had short but sharp claws. Jon gasped and sat up, startled, staring at his hands, turning them over and over again. He gripped them together, and felt their points dig into his palms. He winced. 

As he did, he felt something shift against his back. Was something stuck to him? He fumbled around, feeling something papery and strange. Some kind of fabric? A particularly dry and poorly cared for pelt? He reached to pull it off, but felt a sudden pain and released it. 

His eyes drifted up to the mirror on the wall.

His breaths struggled to escape his chest at an even measure.

Trembling, Jon pushed himself up onto his aching legs and stumbled forward, forward toward the mirror. 

What he saw there was not himself. No, it could not be. Sure, it had his skin, his body, his haggard and worried face, but his eyes were set jet black, and his… he had…

_ A moth will do perfectly. _

Jon folded to his knees and wailed, his new wings arched up behind him, reaching for a salvation and a mercy that would never, ever come for him. For now, he was beholden completely to his master, bound in servitude to him, and whatever entity had granted the Mage Magnus his wretched power. Jon was, from now on, the Mage’s Familiar, and he was not his own.


	3. III: The Labors of Prince Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, welcome to Season 5 everyone. Y'all doin okay? Boy.
> 
> I chose very deliberately not to update yesterday because, well...
> 
> But here you go!

Martin’s stepfather king had not intended for him to return alive. This much was certain.

Never in Martin’s life had he thought the sounds of cheers and the sight of joyful, smiling faces would fill him with such chills. They gathered in the streets to celebrate their prince, who had valiantly slain the beast who had terrorized them. The rapidly mummifying hand was put out on a pike before the castle for all to see. They were already writing songs of him, he was told, but he declined to hear them. Humble, they called him.

Martin wasn’t sure which part troubled him more.

Was it the people rejoicing in the streets over a lie? His lie?

Or was it the slight, barely perceptible narrowing of King Peter’s eyes that told Martin he knew the truth of it?

More than anything, perhaps, it was the fact that Peter did not call him on his lies at all.

“I could not be more proud of you, my boy,” Peter said over a resplendent feast held in celebration of Martin’s feat. A feast for just the two of them, of course, for the King could not abide company lest it was for official reasons.

_ Not your boy _ , Martin wanted to say. “Thank you,” he said instead. He picked idly at a leg of pheasant.

“Whatever is the matter?” Peter said over the rim of his stein. “It really isn’t like you to lose your appetite.” Peter wasn’t to be trusted when he was asking after someone like this, because Peter never asked anything at all unless he was after something very specific, something he knew he’d have to put in the effort for.

“Just overwhelmed is all,” Martin said with a pressed smile. “The fight, and all the revelry afterward. I’m not accustomed to so much excitement. Ours is a quiet kingdom, you know.”

“I do,” Peter said, fondly. He knocked back a swig of ale and set it aside before tucking into a cut of swordfish. “But I fear we’re not free of celebrations yet. There is also your coronation to consider.”

Having only just managed to get a mouthful of poultry, Martin nearly choked on it. “C-coronation?” he sputtered.

“Of course,” Peter said. “You set out to prove yourself, and you did so admirably. It is clear now that you have become a man, and a man who is ready to claim the throne of his birthright.” He dug gladly into his fish, but he was clearly watching Martin the whole time.

This conversation was as much a trap as being sent to slay the Beast had been. But he had escaped that unscathed, so surely he could escape this too?

He had escaped that confrontation because there had been no confrontation because he’d had the good grace and fortune to meet Jon, but Jon wasn’t here. Only his wicked stepfather was here, watching him with all the patience of a wolf on the hunt.

“I… am honored, of course,” Martin said, carefully, weighing each word on his tongue before sending it out. “After all this time, it almost seems so simple.”

“Simple? Surely slaying the Beast of Eyes was no small task.”

Careful, careful. “Indeed not. But… it was what had to be done, for my people, and so there was simply no other way forward.”

“Exactly as to be expected from a true king,” Peter remarked. He wiped at his bristling whiskers with a napkin and reached for another skewer of vegetables.

Martin remembered a time when serving folk would come around to bring them additional servings as they dined. There had been a lovely woman named Rosie at one point who worked serving staff during their larger dinners. Sometimes Martin wondered what had become of her. He was afraid to ask.

“Not to worry, though,” Peter went on. “There are about three months until your coronation ceremony yet. So many preparations. You know I am not terribly keen on large events.”

“Indeed,” Martin said dryly, cutting into his pheasant.

If Peter noted his tone of voice, he made no such indication. “We must send for foreign dignitaries among our allies to join us, and give them time to travel. We must have feasts prepared, performers conscripted, extra security drawn up. Much to be done. So much.”

Martin sighed. Was he just stalling then? Dragging his feet? Was that the worst fallout he’d have to deal with? “Plenty of time to rest up before that, then.”

“Hardly,” Peter scoffed.

Martin squinted. “Pardon?”

“You are a Hero of the People now,” Peter said, absolutely beaming. Peter’s smiles were dreadful things, because they never dawned in his eyes. They were the ghost of the sun behind a morning fog that promised storms. “And a hero has certain responsibilities.”

And there it was. “What kind of responsibilities?”

That terrible grin only widened. The storm was rolling in. “I am so glad you asked.”

***

“What have you done?”

“What do you mean?” Jon said. “I got hunted. Again.” He sat on a pile of hay in the tower loft, which he’d come to think of as his roost, and inspected the new line traced in his flesh around his wrist, where his new hand had grown in. The only trace he had left of his meeting with Prince Martin. He hoped it had been enough, the part of him he offered up. Thin light filtered in through the narrow arrowslit in the tower loft, the only window he had to the outside up here.

“Don’t talk to me like I didn’t see everything. I saw what you did.”

Jon scowled into the palm of his hand. “Then why ask me?”

“Because I want you to explain it to me.”

“I… don’t know if I can.” Jon flexed and unflexed his fingers, just to be sure they all worked, as though this were the first time he’d lost a limb.

“Try me. I have all the time in the world.”

Jon smirked at that, and he finally turned to the mirror. “Don’t you just.”

And in the glass of the mirror, beyond the reflection of the room, there was the faintest outline of a man, a man who was not Jon. The man who called that mirror his home. “Don’t tease.”

“Pot calling the kettle black, Gerry,” Jon said.

Gerry’s visage became a little clearer in the glass as he came closer, as close as he could, and leaned against it from the other side, from beyond. He was a slight thing, his long tangled hair enchanted black, with dark circles under his eyes. It wasn’t clear if he was permanently stuck in the last countenance he wore before becoming this, or if he was just genuinely always that tired, even in the beyond. “I’m not teasing,” he insisted. “Teasing is fun. I am concerned, Jon.”

Falling back into his pile of hay, Jon sighed. This was where he slept when he was, regrettably, in the tower. Home, perhaps, he should say, but he wasn’t sure he believed he had one. “Well what would you have me do? Fight? I’m not a fighter, Gerry.”

“Literally anything but willingly give up your hand,” Gerry said. He rapped on the glass. “Hello. What do you suppose Jonah is going to have to say about this?”

Jon shrugged weakly. “Jonah… doesn’t need to know.”

Gerry scoffed at that. “Oh, yeah, right. Our nigh omniscient master and captor, let’s keep a secret from him! Brilliant.” Gerry stepped back from the frame and set to pacing about his own mirror-version of the tower loft, circling Jon’s reflection. “First of all, you’re an idiot.”

“Granted.”

“Second, you’re an idiot.”

“Well that second one was uncalled for.”

“I’m not playing games with you, Jon!” Gerry leaned in and gently swatted Jon’s reflection upside the head. Sometimes when he did something like that, Jon could swear he could almost feel it. Or maybe it was purely sympathetic. A subconscious physical connection. “You know I worry about you, when you’re out there and I’m stuck up here.”

Jon coiled his arms around himself, feeling his wings graze the backs of his hands. “I know.”

“And as much as I hate to watch you get hunted down like an animal time and again, to see you try to offer up your life?” Gerry’s voice hitched. His image in the mirror flickered away for just a moment. “Jon, I thought I was losing you.”

Jon’s shoulders sank, his wings tucked in tight. In the desperation of the moment, he hadn’t thought of Gerry. “I’m so sorry.”

“I would’ve been alone, you bastard, whiling away the years up here with only Jonah for company, just like I had to endure before you. The decades and decades over which I almost lost my mind just like the rest of the poor bastards in this tower.” He knelt down. “And now that you’re back, after what you did? I feel like I’m just going to have to sit here and watch you get hurt. Maybe worse than ever before.”

“What, because I lost another fight?” Jon said skeptically.

“Because you didn’t even try. Because you gladly sacrificed on behalf of a stranger. Because you offered your aid to a wayward prince. Jonah won’t like it and you know that.”

Jon’s wings flared slightly, feeling defensive. “And why should he care? Why should he care what I do? He’s glad enough when I get hurt, and I got hurt. Shouldn’t he be pleased.”

Gerry had some impressive sighs for someone who didn’t need to breathe. “I know we’re dancing around it here, Jon, but you can’t be that foolish.”

“Say it, then,” Jon spat, dark eyes narrowing.

“Jonah’s going to hate that you found someone to care about. Someone who’s not under his control.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon said firmly, carefully enunciating each word. “It doesn’t. I’ll probably never see him again. He’ll be made king, be made busy on his kingly duties, and I will continue to suffer my miserable existence out here, my only comfort knowing that I was able to do one, just one good thing by one good person.”

“And what, pray tell, do you think will happen the next time you have to feed in the Blackwood? When his people realize their newfound king didn’t slay the Beast after all? That he lied to them?” Gerry raised an eyebrow.

Jon shook his head, scrabbling to compensate his actions like trying to claw his way up a cliff. “So I won’t feed in the Blackwood! I’ll only feed in the Wasteland then! I’ll avoid the Blackwood as long as I can, if that’s what it takes to protect him.”

“Good luck with that,” Gerry said.

Just as Jon pulled deep a breath to launch another defense, he heard the clatter of a key in the green door. Gerry’s image in the mirror blinked away in an instant, and Jon’s whole body went stiff. The door creaked open, and Jon heard the fond little hum of Jonah Magnus in the doorway behind him. “There you are,” he said. “I thought I sensed my familiar coming home to roost.”

“Jonah,” Jon said curtly. He fanned his wings out, instinctively trying to shield himself, but they nor he had any power over his master. Only the demonic master they shared had that.

With sharp clicking heels, Jonah came around Jon. He didn’t ask, didn’t need to, simply grabbed Jon by the forearm and pulled it in close to inspect. “You’ve been injured.”

Jon smirked bitterly up at him, dangling from his grip. “Does it please you?”

“Hardly. I didn’t order this.” He relinquished Jon and let him drop. “Tell me what happened.”

“Well what do you suppose?” Jon said, rubbing at his arm where Jonah had wrenched him. “I got attacked again. Barely got away as is.”

Jonah landed directly between Jon and the arrowslit, cutting off the light. “I see. Anything else you want to tell me.”

Jon stared up at Jonah, kneeling in the cast of his shadow. Lying to Jonah was a dangerous game, because the powers gifted unto him by his patron meant he could see right through Jon if he really wanted to. He damn well might know already, and was waiting for Jon’s response to decide just how severely to punish him. And if he already knew, Jon was damn well sure it wouldn’t be him alone who would suffer for it. But if he didn’t know? If he was genuinely asking? This would be Jon’s last chance to protect Martin from Jonah’s ire for tangling with his plaything. “No,” Jon said, once, decisively.

“No  _ what _ ?” Jonah prompted, leaning over him.

Deferentially Jon sank, and lowered his head. Even his wings dropped, trailing out behind him. “No, master. There is nothing. I was foolish, I was careless, and I got myself wounded. Forgive me, master.”

“Fret not. All is forgiven.” He reached down and caressed Jon’s cheek fondly. 

Jon flinched at even his slightest touch.

Jonah pulled back from him and wandered over to the door. “Well, so long as you’re all recovered, I have an errand for you.”

Wearily, Jon eyed Jonah up and down. “What manner of errand?” He could already feel the pain deep in his muscles and bones.

“Nothing too taxing, pet, I assure you. I simply need you to go gather some herbs for me from the Blackwood. A bit of mandrake, a switch of peridexion… the wool of a Tartary lamb, if you can get it.”

A weight dropped heavy in Jon’s stomach. “Back to the Blackwood? So soon?”

Jonah glanced back over his shoulder, one hand on the doorframe. “Is there a problem?”

With no ground left to go to and no safe quarter, Jon forced a smile and lied, “None. None at all, my master.”

***

Remarkable, really, how much less terrifying the Blackwood was after you’d already survived it the once. Damn the darkness and the distant snarls of monsters. This was still part of Martin’s kingdom. This was still his home.

Moreover, he wasn’t here for a hunt or a fight, not this time. At least, not yet. Under his arm he carried a basket, covered in a blanket and carefully latched. In his other hand he carried a lantern. He still wore his armor, of course, because he wasn’t a fool, no matter what his mother had said, what he knew many of his stepfather’s advisors thought. No, he knew this place was dangerous. But now it was dangerous in a familiar and comforting way. 

The foolish thing wasn’t coming to the Blackwood. The foolish thing was his hope, deep in the pit of his heart, that in all this massive, sprawling forest, in the acres and miles of tense woodland, that he could find him again. Oh how he prayed he could find him, because he didn’t know where else to turn.

Besides, despite everything, despite what he was, Beast of Eyes or not, Martin worried about Jon. He was all alone out here, it seemed. Or close to it. 

Yet, how does one find a single monster… no, a single man in an entire forest?

Well, it seems that he finds you instead.

“No,” Martin heard Jon’s voice, so soft in the shadows behind him. “Oh no no no. No.”

Just as before, Jon had shown up without a sound or a trace. He was simply there, already standing nearby, now illuminated in the lantern light as Martin turned to face him. And Martin lit up as bright as the flame that burned inside it. “Jon!”

Jon’s wings spread wide and Martin found himself frozen. “Stay away,” Jon snarled. “You can’t be here.”

Martin looked him up and down. “Why? This is my kingdom, I can be here if I wish.”

“It’s not safe for you here,” Jon said. If anything his eyes almost seemed to grow darker in the light he shone on him. “I’m not safe for you. Leave.”

In turn, Martin only smiled at his scowl, at the venom in his voice. “Oh, sure you are. You don’t scare me.”

“I should. I am a monster.”

“No you are not,” Martin said with great confidence. Maybe Jon was right, and he should be afraid. After their last encounter though, Martin simply couldn’t see him that way. All he could see was the frightened, lost, broken man who had offered of his own body to help Martin. And how it gladdened his heart to see him again, one of the few people who had ever gone to lengths to do him kindness. “And if you release me from your thrall, I have something for you.”

Jon frowned deeply and wrung his hands. “What is it?”

Martin laughed lightly. “Well if you don’t let me go, I can’t show you!”

Slowly, hesitantly, Jon lowered his wings and tucked them away. “How did you know you were going to be able to find me?”

“I didn’t,” Martin confessed. Now free to move, he edged closer to Jon. “If anything, if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s you who found me.”

Jon cast his eyes downward and a flush crowned his cheekbones. “I… sensed you. Here. In the wood. I had to know why you were here. Tell me you didn’t come to this awful place only for me.”

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s not so bad. Once you get used to it.” Martin shrugged and opened up the basket. Inside were a collection of ripe fruits, fresh baked scones and biscuits and bread, a couple jars of jam, and a wineskin of one of the finest wines in the castle cellar. There was also a bouquet of gardenia, white heather and white violet, ferns, and carefully dethorned dark pink roses from the castle garden. “Um, the flowers aren’t for eating. I just thought they were nice.” With slightly trembling hands, he held the basket out. “Here.” It wasn’t that he was afraid of Jon. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.

Martin was afraid of caring more than he feared any monster. Caring had always wounded him and left him behind alone.

Jon hesitated, his hands still clinging only to each other, and stared at the basket. “I… I don’t…”

“Please,” Martin said, and took a step forward, basket still outstretched. “Please take it. I worry about you out here, and I want you to have something nice.”

Tentatively, Jon took the basket into his claws. Martin saw that indeed his hand had grown back, just as he promised, with a new scar to show for it. “Thank you.” He flicked his wings a moment, as though for want of flight, and glanced around. “Will you sit with me a while? At least have some of it yourself? I worry I won’t be able to… appreciate it fully.”

There was a warmth which fanned through Martin like the welcoming beckon of a fireside. “I’d be glad to share.” He plucked up the blanket which covered the basket, shook it and laid it out. It was just barely big enough for the two of them, here in this hollow, tucked between growths of brambles. Martin could hear some small birds flutter off nearby, and it told him that somewhere beyond the trees it was still day. That made this a fine enough lunch then. And to share it with the beast would soothe Martin’s jangled nerves, he hoped. There was so much weighing on him. So much he was afraid to speak.

Jon sat down at the very edge of the blanket, wings out, knees tucked in close, everything about him guarded. Gingerly he picked up a blueberry scone, scrutinized it, turned it over in his hands.

“It’s all safe, I promise,” Martin said softly, rubbing his arm.

“I know, I know,” Jon snapped. “It’s not that. I just… I haven’t…” He nipped his lip, cutting off his words, and Martin chose not to press him if he didn’t feel ready to say. Instead, he watched in wonder as Jon ravenously devoured the scone such that he was afraid he might bite off his fingers too.

“Sweet powers above!” Martin cried, leaning back. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Cheeks flushed, Jon sheepishly glanced up at Martin, his claws and fingertips stained dark purple. “Ah… what year is it?”

“What?”

“Let’s just say… a long time.” Jon gingerly licked his claws clean like a stray cat grooming itself, then went in after one of the biscuits. This one, this he didn’t eat just yet. He held it gingerly, oh so delicately, and stared at it. It was a rather plain thing admittedly, sugar, iced white. 

Martin had made them himself, in point of fact. When he was small, his mother had always insisted it wasn’t his place to be down in the kitchens with the help. Martin was always curious about what they did and who they were, though, and they were only glad enough to share with the little prince. He’d learned a lot from them, and sometimes he still liked to sneak into the kitchens when no one was around and make something for himself. It seemed like an awful hassle and a rudeness to rouse one of the serving folk just to bake him some biscuits because he got a craving late in the evening. They worked so hard, he’d rather they rest. He’d never gotten to bake something for someone else, though.

It was a marvel then to see how Jon smiled to behold the simple biscuit. A small and fragile smile, undercut with dewy eyes. His lower lip trembled ever so slightly.

When Martin’s chest tightened, he told himself he was simply glad that his act of nurturing had brought someone a moment of happiness. That his shortness of breath was for this, and nothing else.

Martin hated to break the moment, to fracture that delicate smile.

“I do have a confession,” Martin said.

“Oh?” Jon lowered the biscuit down and set it atop the basket without taking the slightest bite. The tender smile faltered and fell, and his face tightened with wariness.

“It’s nothing bad!” Martin frantically added, leaning forward, hands out. “At least… not for you. Oh geeze. Um.” He settled back down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I did bring you the basket because I worry about you, and it’s yours, no questions asked, you don’t owe me anything but… I might need your help. I didn’t know where else to turn, and I felt… guilty, I suppose, asking your aid once again without offering something in return. After you gave up your hand for me.” He eyed the freshly regrown limb and tentatively added. “The new one… looks good?” He was in uncharted territory, and had no idea if that was the right compliment, or if a compliment was even called for.

“Thanks?” Jon said, flexing his hand uncertainly. “Prince Martin… I am truly not sure what you think I can help you with. I have so little to offer that would be of interest to you.”

Martin sank in place. Part of him wished the ground would just open up and swallow him, steal him away from the demands his stepfather had made of him. Hero of the People, he’d called him. Both Peter and Martin himself knew that was a lie. Which was exactly why Martin now found himself in this position, with this burden. A burden that promised to make good on what King Peter had surely intended when he sent Martin after the Beast of Eyes. “Do you know much of the other monsters of this wood?” Martin asked.

Jon nodded. “I do. Why do you ask?”

Martin squared his shoulders and forced himself to look Jon in the eyes. He wanted to pretend to be brave. To pretend to be a Hero of the People. “I need you to tell me everything you know about The Boneturner.”


	4. IV: The Boneturner's Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this up earlier in the week but... you know. The world. Then Animal Crossing. Then new episode.
> 
> Anyway, here you go. So, in this one that "canon typical body horror" tag REALLY counts. I mean, it's the Boneturner so that should be a given, but. Just be mindful.

“How much do you know about magic?”

Martin sat cross-legged on the blanket, spreading a bit of strawberry jam on a heel of bread. He did prefer the middles, but he wanted to leave the best bits for Jon to take with him. “Not much, I’m afraid. Not a lot of resources on the subject, and my education was much more in… politics.” He grimaced at that and took a bite to get the sour taste out of his mouth. 

Jon was perched up on a log nearby, kicking his feet and digging his toes into the dirt. “You’re right, there aren’t a lot of resources,” he said. “What there are are a lot of secrets, and for good reason. You see, Martin, the thing about magic is that it isn’t a… skill. Not really. Wielding it is. But magic is an element, much like water, much like fire. Like any other element, you can wield it to do incredible things, with the right tools and the right knowhow. Use it wrong?” He leaned in and snapped his fingers in Martin’s face, startling him mid-bite. “It’ll consume you as surely as any flame.”

Martin choked and sputtered and wiped at his face with his sleeve. “But… plenty of people use fire in their hearth every day. Why doesn’t everyone use magic?”

With a shrug and a circling of his claws in the air, Jon said, “Plenty of people keep dogs, so why don’t we bring wolves into our homes? Magic is wild, Martin. Difficult to control, impossible to contain, and quite ravenous. To be a mage, to learn to wield magic, is to tame the wolf into the dog over and over again. Magic tears most people who try to learn it to bits.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with the Boneturner,” Martin said, wiping the spreading knife clean on a napkin.

“It has everything to do with him.” Jon hopped down from the log and knelt at the blanket once again. From the basket, he plucked three biscuits. “It’s about what magic did to him, you see. There are three types of mages. First you have the wizards, who try to come by their magic honestly. They read, they learn, they practice. They expose themselves to sources of power and try to channel and manipulate them. But wizardry…” Jon snapped one of the biscuits in half. “Is equally as likely to kill you as not. The more time you spend around sources of magic, or magical creatures, or skilled magic users improves your odds but ultimately you are vulnerable to the whims of magic itself. A baker cooking on an open wildfire.”

Martin watched him and listened intently. Indeed, his life depended on having as much knowledge as he could. But he had to admit, his mind drifted a bit, constantly getting snagged on admiration for the confidence in Jon’s voice and the knowledge he possessed. He didn’t understand, he’d always been… perhaps not a remarkable student, but a perfectly average one by all his tutors’ assessments. Why was he so distracted now? Why did he keep getting caught up on the movements of Jon’s nimble claws and the rattle of night and cicadas in his voice?

“Then you have the sorcerers,” Jon said. He held one biscuit aloft into a thin shaft of sunlight, where it caught some of the sugar that crusted the icing and glistened. “Sorcerers are born into magic, it runs in their veins. You don’t choose to be a sorcerer, it chooses you. Usually this means you’ve something a bit inhuman in your blood: draconic, fae, elemental, the like. It’s the safest way to use magic, but dreadfully rare.” He set the biscuit aside, and plucked up the third, holding it up for Martin to see. It seemed perfectly alike all the others. “The important bit for you, though, Martin, is the warlocks.”

It occurred to Martin that he’d been addressed, and he desperately skimmed his mind to parse the words. “Why… why is that?”

There was a wry twist at one corner of Jon’s mouth, inspecting the biscuit. “Sometimes a person decides they want the gift of magic, they need it, they’re entitled to it, but they weren’t lucky enough to be born a sorcerer, and they don’t wish to roll the dice as a wizard. In that case, they can always make a pact with a demon. The demon will grant a person the ability to wield magic as they please. But the bargain is effectively indentured servitude; there is a debt they will be forever paying off to their patron in exchange for their gift. And the things that debt demands of them?” Jon flicked the biscuit aside, into a nearby puddle, where it quickly grew soggy, softening around the edges, distorting in the muddy water. “It usually warps them.”

Martin swallowed, watching the biscuit crumble. “And The Boneturner… it is one such warlock?”

“It is precisely what makes him so dangerous, yes,” said Jon. “You can weaken a warlock if you destroy their pact, usually manifested in physical form. It won’t rob them of their magic, not immediately, but it will bring down their defenses. One Mr. Jared Hopworth, your Boneturner, being very practical and very much an idiot, keeps his on his person. His is a whistle made of human bone, I am told, which hangs from his belt. Which is both good and bad news for you, as you’ll have to get in close to him to even begin to even your odds.”

Martin fumbled in the basket for a biscuit of his own. He needed to keep his hands and mouth busy to distract himself from the trembling he wanted to do. He had to be brave. “And… if I can’t.”

Jon’s face fell. He kept his eyes fixed on the blanket, apparently unable to look Martin in the eyes. “Well… then he will probably rip your bones from your body and warp your flesh to please his demonic master.”

Martin had the biscuit halfway to his mouth, but had to set it down as he was beginning to feel a bit sick. “Heavens help me,” he murmured.

“Near as I can tell the heavens want us to help ourselves,” Jon muttered. He craned over the basket and fondly ran his clawtip over a rose petal. “If there’s actually anyone up there at all. What I will say in your favor… the Boneturner is not terribly perceptive. If you’re sufficiently quiet and subtle, you could creep into his cabin and pilfer the flute right from his side before he ever knows you’re there.” Jon gathered up his knees to his chest and held them there. “And I… pray that you do. I really do. The Boneturner is a disgusting wretch of a thing which once called himself a man. I could stand to see less people like him in the world. And I don’t want…” He hesitated, his folded wings drawing in closer, tight against his back. “Well. If you would be so kind, when your quest is won, to come back and meet me in this same glade? To let me know? I should be grateful.”

There was a fluttering in Martin’s chest at that request, at the strain in Jon’s voice and his weary countenance. “I… I will, I promise.” He looked him up and down, wondering at this magnificent creature which sat before him, so worried about him. “And you?”

This finally roused Jon’s gaze to meet Martin’s. “What of me?"

“You’re… not like him, are you? A warlock?” Martin swallowed, digging his fingertips into the blanket and twisting, just so his tension could go somewhere. He couldn’t imagine a beast so gentle making so terrible a deal.

Jon chuckled softly. “No, I am not,” he said. “I am no kind of mage at all. Mages are people, you see.”

“You are a person,” Martin said, firmly.

Jon fell silent and turned away. He gathered the basket up in his claws and stood a moment, only staring at it. “Thank you for the kind gift, Prince Martin.”

“Please just call me Martin.” He stood, collected the blanket, shook it out, bundled it, and handed it back to Jon. 

“Martin,” Jon said, and if Martin didn’t know better, he’d swear he was smiling to himself. “Promise me you will be careful. Flee, if you have to. I wish I had more to offer to support you.”

“Information is enough,” Martin promised. “At least I’m not going into this completely ignorant. I… swear I will return here. At least, I will try.”

Jon twisted his hands around the basket handle. “As long as we are disclosing information, there is one more thing I want you to know.”

Martin took a step closer, comforted in his radius. “That is?”

“Be wary of your stepfather.”

“Oh, I already know he’s trying to get me killed.”

“No, not that.” Jon closed the gap between them. He lifted one hand, as though to place it on Martin’s shoulder, but then withdrew it. “Your stepfather is a warlock too.”

A chill strangled Martin’s very core. “Wh… what?” He knew Peter was selfish, and dangerous, and that he wanted the throne. But magically dangerous at that?

“I wish I knew more but he is… elusive.” Jon sighed. “Good luck, Martin. Please come back soon. I must go or… well, I must go.”

There were tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He didn’t want Jon to go. He wanted Jon at his side when he faced down his opponent. He wanted Jon to walk with him and make everything make sense to him. He didn’t want to be alone. “Wait. Why do you have to go? Where are you--”

But Jon had already turned heel, and in a fluttering of his wings, he disappeared.

Martin stood alone in the dark and still darkening forest, heart as heavy as the sword on his hip. 

Well, first thing was first. If Martin was going to survive his stepfather, he would have to survive the Boneturner first. Besides, he’d promised Jon he would return.

***

Jon wished he could’ve kept the whole basket. Really, he did.

He ate as many of the baked goods as he could, making his way back to the tower on foot. A few small treats and trinkets he could manage were hidden in his raggedy clothes: the spreading knife, a napkin, a couple biscuits. Most of the rest he left in the basket, tied up in the blanket, and left out somewhere conspicuous in the hopes that the nearby village would find it and have it. He couldn’t approach them with it directly, of course; they knew what he was and would try to kill him on sight. Maybe they would still find it too suspicious, but he hoped someone would get some enjoyment out of it, it was all really very good.

The flowers were a dilemma. They were probably too conspicuous to try to take home, but they were so lovely, and Martin had picked them just for him. Obviously garden-grown rather than wildflowers, though. Jonah might have questions. But maybe, just maybe, if he could get them upstairs to the loft, he could hide them, and dry them, and keep them in his haypile. So he stuffed the whole bouquet to the bottom of his satchel, underneath all his gathering, and made his way up to the tower.

“Master? I’ve returned,” Jon called, cautiously approaching the study. His voice echoed against the hewn stone, but his footfalls were silent as ever. “I found everything you asked for, though the Tartary wool took a bit of hunting.”

In his study, Jonah stood at a beautiful, coiling ficus he kept. He was taking trimmings of the leaves.

Jon politely averted his eyes.

“Oh, splendid,” Jonah said, and set his shears aside. He turned to approach Jon and held out his hands expectantly. 

Carefully, Jon withdrew all of Jonah’s requests from his bag, laying the clippings, the branches, the wool all on his open palms, then let the flap fall closed and tucked his satchel back slightly behind his hip. “I hope this will suffice.”

Jonah laid the gathered herbs out on his work table, and Jon turned to take his leave.

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” Jonah said to his retreating back.

Jon froze, legs twitching. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, and squared his shoulders. “Is that not all you asked me for?”

“It is,” Jonah agreed. And the next time he spoke, his voice and his breath were right at the back of Jon’s neck. “But it’s not all you brought, is it.”

Shuddering, eyes squeezed shut tight, Jon gripped his bag. “I…” Would a lie help him or hurt him? Jonah already knew he had the flowers, so did he already know where they came from? There was no hiding from this, and perhaps at least if he sacrificed the flowers he could keep his other treasures. With hesitant, jerky motions, Jon withdrew the flowers from his pack.

Jonah snatched them from Jon’s hand and scrutinized them. “Interesting,” he said softly. “You know, flowers speak loudly, Jon. It can be almost deafening.”

Jon had nothing to say, of course, and dare not look at his master.

“Ferns,” Jonah remarked, laying the bouquet on his work table and almost dissecting it. “For magic… but also for shelter and confidence. White heather, for protection. Gardenia?” Jonah’s voice curled up with curiosity at this. “Hm, secret love. White violets for taking a chance on happiness. How quaint. And… thornless, dark pink roses.” He reapproached Jon, and tucked one gently behind his ear. And Jonah’s gentleness was just as dreadful as his cruelty, because of the cruelty it promised. “Gratitude, and love at first sight.”

Jon swallowed down a sob before it could escape his chest and betray him. All those things Martin had meant for him. For him. Perhaps unintentionally, perhaps subconsciously. But it was for him. And he couldn’t even process what all of that meant, because now it was laid bare before his master.

“Why Jon,” Jonah whispered. He took Jon by the shoulder and turned him to face him. “You shouldn’t have.”

Doing his best to convert his grimace into a fragile grin, Jon ventured, “Do you like them?”

“I love them, you flatter me, pet,” Jonah said, and patted Jon’s cheek, making him twitch. “Now, would you do us a favor?” He gestured vaguely to the ficus. “Finish trimming him for me while I sort all of these?”

Jon nodded gravely and crossed the room briskly as he could, glad for any distance he could put between them. He took the shears in hand, and looked the ficus up and down. “I’m sorry,” he whispered before he took to cutting.

If Jonah noticed, he made no remark on it. But there was a great deal, Jon knew all too well, that Jonah knew and never said until it was too late.

***

There was a rickety cabin in the north of the Blackwood that always smelled of the copper tang of blood and gristle. When the strong winds blew through the trees, the old rotting boards all groaned in pain. No living thing breathed a song nor a cry within miles; those who had survived had learned better by now. This was the home of The Boneturner.

Once an angry young man and now a wretched and giant beast, the Boneturner sat a chair of human ivory at a table of human flesh, and he waited. He bore no ambitions for power, nor designs on wealth. He wished for no revenge for there was no wrong upon which to avenge himself. His only motivation was raw curiosity, that animal emotion that can be at once the most beneficial and the most dangerous. So he waited, for he had naught to seek out and time had a way of bringing lovely playthings right to him.

For now, he was toying with the leg bones of a merchant who had passed by some weeks prior. A wretched little man he was, who had hoped to prey on the free peoples of No Man’s Land, passing off worthless baubles as treasures and demanding exorbitant prices for badly needed supplies. Not that Jared cared a bit about that. The man could have been anyone. Every human being was merely meat and bones to be bent to Jared’s whims in praise of his patron. These legbones were now clumsily twisted and squeezed into ugly cookware and tools for the hearth. Earlier he’d made a bowl of a skull, and a fine set of windchimes from finger bones and teeth. Skin was warped into upholstery and curtains. Much of the flesh he ate, and the less said of what became of the rest of it, the better. 

This was the way of things when Prince Martin of Blackwood arrived, sword at his hip and fear in his heart.

Fear is a very useful tool of the brain. It can help you keep your wits about you, warn you off of danger. But when the danger is your destination, the fear is not much help at all.

As best he could, Martin steeled himself, and he crept forward. The door was so much larger than he’d thought it would be. He stood but half its height. He wasn’t sure he had any hope of opening it. But the nearby window was half open, letting in the evening breeze. Martin nodded once, hooked a rope about an exposed ivorn nail, and climbed up to peek inside. Blessedly, the beast had his great, hulking, misshapen back to him, long tangled hair hanging in curtains around his head, and was busy hunched over his terrible work. Martin took a deep breath to push back the heart crawling up his throat, and he squirmed in through the window. 

It was a fortunate thing for Martin that he’d spent much of his life trying to be unseen. He never wanted to bother anyone, preferred to be unintrusive, and besides, it always seemed best to avoid his mother, and even more so his stepfather, lest he get an earful of their displeasure or worse. His footfalls were silent and sure as he stooped low and crept towards the creature. Terror hung about him in thick veils, and the only thing that parted him was the knowledge of his promise. He had promised Jon he’d return. Jon had pleaded with him to return. Dear Jon, with his stunning dark eyes like jet, with his courage and mercy. This man he’d been told was a monster cared so much for his safe return, so Martin would, because he could not bear the idea of Jon waiting up for a rendezvous that would never come. Martin had always hated to disappoint people. 

When he grew close enough, Martin held even his breath, lest a stray gasp betray him. There he saw it, just as Jon had said--a flute of bone, rough hewn and shoddy, but sure as daybreak. It seemed comically small against the Boneturner’s height and girth, but this worked to Martin’s advantage. Something so small and so light by comparison would surely be easily missed until the next time the creature reached for it. Martin took a dagger from his boot, and he oh so carefully cut the length of rope which kept the flute hanging from the Boneturner’s belt. It all seemed too easy, as Martin cautiously backed across the room with it. He wanted to put space between them, so that when Martin did the deed, he would have room to prepare for whatever the beast’s retaliation might be. 

There was an uncomfortably flesh-colored doormat near the entry where Martin laid the flute down, sure that there it would not make a sound. From its scabbard he withdrew his sword, inch by deliberate inch, and still the monster did not hear him. Martin took a deep breath, raised his sword up high. He thought of his people, and he thought of Jon, and he thought of all that he was willing to do and willing to give for them as he brought the blade down on the flute. It shattered, and the mat beneath it bled.

The Boneturner let out an agonized howl so deep and so great it rattled the cabin nearly apart and echoed through the whole of the Blackwood.

Martin planted his feet firmly and held his sword at the ready, prepared to swing.

Throwing his chair to the side with a crash, the Boneturner rose to his full and terrible height, broad shoulders heaving. “You!” he bellowed. “Thief! Vandal!” He charged toward Martin with an incoherent shout of rage. But he was clumsy, and he was predictable, and the swing of Martin’s blade easily caught his side.

Where it promptly got stuck.

For the flesh of the Boneturner, you see, is so much more than the average man in every sense. It is not just more plentiful, but far more dense.

Eyes widening, Martin frantically struggled to pull his sword free.

The Boneturner laughed, thick and deep. He grabbed Martin by the arm and lifted his feet off the ground. “Well well well. You thought you could attack me in my own home, little prince? You thought you could destroy my treasure and get away with it?”

Martin struggled, kicked and flailed. Reaching desperately for his sword handle with his off-hand, he sobbed. “No, no…”

“I’ve never taken the bones of royalty before,” the Boneturner mused. Not once letting go of Martin, he plucked the sword free and threw it aside, where it landed by the window. He carried Martin, still struggling, back to his table, and laid him down there atop the scraps of bone which already lay there. “I shall have to make something very fine indeed from them. Or perhaps, just display them as is. Such lovely bones.”

Martin wept, trying his hardest to get up, but the Boneturner easily pinned him down with a single hand. He scratched and clawed frantically at his gripping fingers, but the monster was indifferent. 

He’d failed. He was careless, and he’d failed. After all, he’d never been a fighter. What hope did he think he had against a behemoth. Now he was going to die here, his stepfather’s horrid work finally done for him. What was going to become of his kingdom? And what was going to become of Jon, who seemed to have so few places to turn?

“You know, I have heard a rumor that you are spineless,” said The Boneturner. With the hand not trapping Martin, he touched his torso. Then slowly, terribly, he sunk his huge fingers in. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

And Martin screamed. He almost wished it hurt. But it didn’t hurt. It just felt wrong, so wrong, as his body shifted and gave way, manipulated by this warlock’s awful magic. He felt fingertips grazing his bones. He knew he was going to die.

Suddenly, the fingers were gone, wrenched back and out of him. Martin’s body settled back into place. 

The Boneturner screamed, but it choked and cut off.

Martin saw the point of a sword blade jut through the beast’s throat from behind, then retract.

Slain, the Boneturner collapsed to the floor.

A man, dark-haired and beautiful, leaped back before he could be crushed by the giant’s fall. 

Martin sat at the edge of the table, breathless, and stared at his savior.

The man wiped the blade clean on the Boneturner’s shirt and sheathed it, and shot Martin a grin which glinted in the light of the hearth. “Well, you know what they say. The bigger they are…”

Martin clutched at his chest, desperate to still his racing heart. “Who… who are you?” He was still trying to shake free the last clinging strands of mortal terror, but there was something in this man’s lovely, playful visage that put Martin quickly at ease.

“Hm? Oh, pardon my manners, somewhere in all the giant slaying and dashing gentleman-in-distress saving, I must’ve forgotten to introduce myself.” He held out a hand to help Martin down. “Prince Timothy of House Stoker, heir to the throne of Faege… well… _formerly_ Prince Timothy. It’s complicated. You know what, you can just call me Tim. And would you by chance be Prince Martin of Blackwood?”

Hesitant, if only because he was so overwhelmed, Martin took Tim’s hand and allowed himself to be guided to the floor and onto his own uncertain feet. “I am. Why… um… why do you ask?”

Tim beamed, hearing this confirmation, and laughed brightly. There was music in it. “Well, I come seeking Blackwood’s aid in my kingdom’s time of need,” he said. “And now here I’ve gone and saved your life, and surely the king might be glad to reward me--”

Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, bit of bad news, that.”

“How so?” Tim tilted his head.

“King wants me dead,” Martin confessed. He didn’t know why he was so honest with this foreign prince on this, their first meeting, but there was something in him that commanded trust and confidence. Besides, the man _had_ just saved his life. “And knowing what I now know of him… I don’t think you will want his help either.”

Finally Tim’s winning smile failed him. He grumbled and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, lovely, absolutely perfect.”

“Might I ask, um, what exactly is it that you need the help of an entire kingdom with?” Martin asked.

“Oh.” Tim’s smile crept back to his face, but this time it was sharper, darker. It was a smile you could cut yourself on. “Revenge.”


	5. V: Over the River and Through the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this last chapter but thanks Jonny Sims for completely vindicating me on the Moth Jon aesthetic. Yes I know I wasn't the first, but still.
> 
> Anyway, I hope everyone's holding up okay. Here's a chapter for you! I seem to be doing pretty good keeping up with regular updates so I'm going to confidently say I'll see you again next Friday with another.

Far, far away, over the Blackwood and across the sprawling heaths and scrublands of No Man’s Land lies a land called Faege. Faege is a beautiful land of many rivers and rolling hills, a place where the veil between worlds is thin and magic hangs heavy in the air like summer humidity. This is what makes this land a haven for fairies. Fairies are more plentiful in Faege than anywhere else in the Kingdoms.

This is what makes it so remarkable that they went so long forgotten. 

Faege is a Principality, a land with no kings, a tradition held over from the execution of a traitor king by his own children in times of old. Since then, House Stoker had ruled the land in kindness and good humor. The princes and princesses of the Stoker line were each more lovely than the last and all much beloved by their people. The current reigning Princess had two sons, Timothy and Daniel, and each thought the other better suited to the throne. Tim was the heir by all rights as the eldest, of course. But when he watched Danny, so comfortable both among the court and the common people, well-spoken and confident, with his strong form and bright smile, Tim had half a mind to abdicate and leave the principality in his brother’s loving care. He could wander the lands and be perfectly happy as a traveler and adventurer, checking in on his family from time to time to regale the court with tales and jokes, as was his way. Of course, Danny would never accept, because when he looked at his elder brother he saw the effortlessly charming and persuasive leader he felt he could never be.

The Castle of Gardens, where House Stoker reigned, was a beautiful sight to behold, with many pale stone spires and sharp sapphire roofs, towering over the highest hill in the land. It was well fortified too, of course, as any castle should be, with strong walls and archers on the ramparts. But so too was it fortified against magic, a glistening sheen on the whole structure had held fast to deflect spells for years and years. Tim and Danny grew up believing it was to protect against mages, knowing them to be rare but quite powerful. 

In fact, it was Tim’s childhood friend Sasha who taught him much of what he knew of magic. Each of them knew the other like the back of their hand. They spent their youth running along the rivers, boating, rock climbing, or otherwise huddling in the library, studying and learning the things their tutors would not deign to teach them. As they came of age they’d had a brief flirtation, but it wasn’t meant to be. After all, he was a prince and heir, and she the daughter of a family adviser. Certainly a relationship between them wouldn’t be frowned upon, per se, but Tim would always be expected to marry into nobility, and while Tim was perfectly comfortable sharing his love more broadly, Sasha wasn’t keen to share. Yet still, the best of friends they remained, and even now that Sasha had left to apprentice to the Order of Scholars, that secretive society that trains the world’s librarians, they made sure to keep in touch.

It was a beautiful day when it all went wrong. That always sat uncomfortably with Tim. He felt these things should happen on stormy days or pitch dark nights. Not under bright sunlight and birdsong and gentle breezes. Not when he’d hoped to take his brother out on a hike that would never happen.

After all, the Castle of Gardens was so well fortified. It had stood the test of time against so many attackers trying to tear their way in from without.

The castle was not fortified, however, from threats within.

Admittedly, part of the reason Tim thought himself a poor choice to lead was his tendency to shirk responsibilities when something more interesting was at hand. In this case, he was in the village buying maps to scout out new trails to explore with Danny, and maybe Sasha if he could lure her away from her duties, though that seemed unlikely. He paid the shopkeep extra for her wares and spent a while chatting with her about how her children were doing, and if they wanted for anything in the town. All this while he was meant to be at a meeting with his mother and brother and the castle advisers, but he was sure he could still make it in time to get the gist of it.

When finally he arrived at the castle, he did not recognize where he was.

It was as though the forests and glades themselves had come alive within the halls, plant life growing everywhere, and tiny floating lights hanging in the halls. It would be beautiful if it weren’t so disorienting. Tim crept carefully. He’d wonder if this was his brother’s idea of a joke, but he’d have no idea how Danny would do such a thing. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim kept catching glances of ethereal figures who watched him intently and giggled softly.

Finally he arrived at the throne room.

Immediately he felt he was going to be sick.

His family and all their advisers were still sat around the great table, as in meeting.

Only, they’d been flayed.

Tim staggered back against the far wall, now covered with ivy. He dug around behind himself blindly and found the family sword which hung there upon the wall, hidden behind the foliage. He snatched it down, shaking so badly that the sword rattled as he withdrew it from the scabbard. 

“Room for one more at the table,” a voice said softly in his ear. It almost sounded like the court jester, Nikola, but something was… off. He rounded to strike with his blade all the same, but when he thrust the sword there was no one there. Instead, he heard jeering laughter behind him. He wanted to stay. He wanted to fight these people, these things that had taken his family, taken his home.

Instead he ran, sword in hand, and hacked his way through the branches and vines which hemmed in to try to keep him here. 

In the end he had to fling himself through a window to get out. He landed, crumpled, scoring his arm on the blade which he held and cutting himself on the glass quite badly. He staggered away on his twisted ankle, and made his way to a crawlspace through the hedges, a secret place known only to him, Danny, and Sasha since they were small, and was glad to find it unchanged in spite of the magic that was slowly spreading out from the compromised castle and warping the land around it. Through it, he made his way to the library where Sasha studied. 

Tim threw the doors open, bloodied and haggard, with branches stuck in his hair and a sword hanging loose from his belt.

“Tim, heavens above, what happened to you!” Sasha cried, and scrambled from behind her desk to help him to a chair.

“Castle’s fallen,” Tim choked out, breathless. He wanted to fight Sasha off, thought this was no time for sitting, but knew she wouldn’t have it. Instead he slumped down and let her bandage the worst of his cuts. “Overrun by… fairies, I guess, which are apparently real.”

“They are,” Sasha said, nodding firmly, and slid off his boot to wrap up his sprained ankle.

“They killed my family, Sash,” Tim said. His voice was thick with tears. “They killed them. My family, and our advisers, and your… your…” He swallowed. “I need to go back, I need to--”

“You need to get out of here,” Sasha said. She looked up from her bandaging to lock eyes with him. “You need to save yourself.”

“While those who slayed my family yet live?” Tim cried out. “While there is a traitor somewhere who let them in past the castle’s magic defenses?”

“Oh, yes, just let yourself waltz right in, a one man army against The Fair Folk. Brilliant, Tim.” She sighed, shook her head, and wrapped his sprain up tight before shoving his boot back on. “Tell me, do you trust me?”

“Always,” Tim said, no hesitation.

“Then trust me when I say this. You will not be able to conquer the fae alone.” She stood, and took both of Tim’s hands in her own. “Listen, my Order is in close contact with a powerful mage, the Mage Magnus.”

Tim squinted at her. “I thought he was supposed to be like a legend or something.”

“No, quite real. He has a tower in the middle of No Man’s Land. You should be able to see it from a long way off, it’s the only tower standing. Seek him out there, if he can’t give you his aid directly, he may be able to give you the magical knowledge you need to defeat the fairies.”

Tim rose to his feet, still holding onto her hands. “Come with me.”

Sasha shook her head. “I can’t.”

“They could come here, they could kill you too,” Tim said, and he tried to sound forceful, but his voice quivered too much. 

“My duty is to the Order,” said Sasha. She glanced behind her at the rows and rows and rows of books. “Where knowledge calls is where I follow.” When she turned back to him she was smiling, but there were tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry about Danny, Tim. And about your mum. And everything.”

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Tim said. “I will be back for you. And for my throne. I swear this to you.”

“You can’t come back if you don’t leave,” said Sasha, her smile a bit more wry.

Tim managed a bit of a smile for her too, in spite of everything, and pulled her in to hug her tight.

He fled as the skies over the castle turned violet and the land began to softly glow, possessed of a terrible beauty. 

Traveling through villages and towns, Tim warned everyone he could to stay away from the capitol, and not to trust anyone who seemed to be his mother or his brother, or one of the council, for the Fair Folk had stolen their skins. He hoped at least some would believe his warnings. He prayed that his people would be okay until he could bring back help. At least, whether in support or in pity, the people he met with lent him food and leathers and other supplies until, by the time he crossed the western border of Faege into the dry, barren No Man’s Land, he was fully kitted and stocked as the adventurer he’d always dreamed of being. Only, he wished it didn’t have to come like this.

It was weeks of hard journeying, long and exhausting, to make it to the Mage’s Tower. It was quite the glad sight to see it peeking and stretching up over the horizon, for by then Tim’s supplies had run quite thin, and clean running water was a hard thing to find out here; springs were infrequent, and the few shallow rivers ran silty with loose soil. Harried and weary, Tim marched up to the heavy, massive front door and knocked. What a surprise when it easily fell open for him, though no one stood behind it.

Brow furrowed, Tim peeked into the dark room beyond the door, flagstone floors barely illuminated by the dying ghost of sunset light. “Hello?” Tim called, stepping inside. “Is this the Mage’s Tower?” He took a few more steps forward into the dark. His steps echoed, and in dread he feared perhaps the ancient mage had finally passed on, and his search would be for naught. “Listen, I am sorry to intrude, but I come to entreat you for aid!” Still no reply, so he began to advance up the winding steps to the next level. “The Principality of Faege has fallen! If you can help me win back my throne, you will be justly rewarded.” His hand lingered on a door handle. It felt strangely warm.

It was then he heard a voice whisper in his ear, deep but somehow soft all at once, “Leave. You are in grave danger here.”

Tim gasped and wheeled about to face who had spoken, one hand on the hilt of his blade. But he saw no one there. Recalling what had happened the last time he was harangued by disembodied voices, Tim thought it best to take the speaker on their word. He began back down the steps, and no sooner was he in sight of the door again when he saw it slowly beginning to creak closed, threatening to seal him in. Tim sprinted, and as he wedged himself out the closing door it snapped shut on his sleeve, tearing it free.

Shaken, he stared back up the tower. At the very top there was an arrowslit, and he could have sworn he saw someone peeking down at him from it, but he did not stay to figure out for sure.

Instead, he continued fleeing west until he found a village of free people who gladly offered him shelter, who would not even accept payment, hearing he had come from the Mage’s Tower. He swore to himself that when he had his kingdom back he would find a way to repay them. 

In a modest attic room, laying on his bedroll, Tim considered his options.

Even if he could return east and make it safely across his own lands, past the fairies, which seemed unlikely, Tim didn’t like his odds with Faege’s neighboring lands. Relations with the eastern kingdoms weren’t the brightest. 

There was still bad blood between Faege and the United Kingdom of Alveare ever since Tim had refused Queen Jane, then still Princess Jane, for marriage. Truth be told, he was afraid of the woman. Rumor had it she’d poisoned her elder brother, Prince John of Amherst, to get him out of the way of her succession. Tim had no doubt she’d do the same to him given the chance.

Prospects weren’t much better with the Pyrrhan Empire. Empress Jude had quite the bloodlust in her, only worsened by the tragic premature death of her lady wife Empress Agnes, and Jude had burned at the stake all who opposed her succession. Being that Faege had declined to acknowledge her right to rule, leaving the nations teetering on the brink of war for years, that seemed a burned bridge as well.

The Kingdom of Altiora wasn’t necessarily off the table. However, any deal made with King Simon the Fair Child always seemed to come at far too high a cost, and Tim had no interest in bargaining with a mischievous madman eager to cheat. 

That really only left one option; to travel further westward to the Kingdom of Blackwood, and appeal to King Peter. He was an elusive man with few alliances, a bit of a wildcard, but what choice did Tim have? 

At the break of dawn Tim shouldered his pack, kindly thanked his hosts, and made his way towards the Blackwood, where fortune favored him with a chance meeting. At least, insofar as fortune seemed willing to favor him of late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: meant to put the map in earlier since the lore busted wide open.
> 
> Anyway, here's the map! Made via Azgaar's Fantasy Map Generator v1.3 and edited slightly in Photoshop.


	6. VI: The Prince's Gambit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed Friday! It's Been A Week. I'm updating the tags. The new tag warning doesn't become relevant in this chapter but it will later.

Through the wood the two princes traveled while Tim regaled Martin with his tribulations. Martin listened attentively, leading the way between trees and coils of ivy, and his heart ached to hear it. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, nudging a curtain of vines out of the way, and holding it open for Tim. “I wish I was in a position to aid you, but… afraid I’m in a bit of peril myself.”

“No, this is perfect!” Tim said. He blanched as soon as he spoke it and sidled through the part in the greenery beside Martin. “Sorry, what I should say is… I think we can help each  _ other _ .”

“I really don’t have the power to offer you aid,” said Martin, wringing his hands.

“Yet,” Tim said. He clapped a hand on Martin’s shoulder and Martin hoped he wasn’t blushing at the contact as much as he felt he was. “But, listen, you clearly need backup for whatever awful thing your stepfather is going to demand of you to try to get you killed next. Let me help you, let me protect you, and as soon as you clear this obstacle course of death and get your crown, you can help me out in turn.”

“I mean, I suppose I can try. And I really am grateful for you to help me, but I really cannot ask you to put yourself at risk for me.” Martin reached into his pocket and fumbled around for his compass, making sure he was still headed in the right direction. 

“Listen, I’m at risk no matter what I do. Think of me like a mercenary, except instead of paying me in gold, you’ll pay me in favor! That, and the pleasure of the company of a handsome prince.” He winked.

Martin choked out a noise most undignified and unbecoming of royalty and dropped his compass into the brush. 

“Oh, forgive me for being forward,” Tim said, with a playful lilt that suggested he wasn’t the least bit sorry about it. “Allow me.” He stooped down by Martin, who remained stunned still, and fetched up the compass from the ground. His eyes surveyed the sway of its needle, and the path upon which they tread, and he squinted at Martin as he returned it. “I don’t believe we’re headed in the direction of your kingdom, Prince Martin.”

“Oh! No. Sorry.” Martin clutched the compass to his chest and gave a bashful smile. “We’re headed to meet a friend of mine first. He just… needed to know I was alright. After my quest.” Something sparked off in the back of Martin’s head. “Actually, he might be able to help you a bit! He knows a lot more about magic than I do, he might have advice.”

“And this friend of yours… lives in the forest? The dangerous, man-eating-monster forest?” Tim said, squinting at Martin but following him on nonetheless.

“Oh! He is a monster,” Martin said cheerily. “Well… no, I don’t like to think of him like that. You’ll see soon enough.”

It was Tim’s turn for his step to falter, just a bit. He found himself in a laugh and followed it through to push himself forward. “You know, you’re lucky I have nowhere else to go, or I might excuse myself from the company of someone who is clearly daft. You’re meeting a  _ monster _ you said?”

“Be nice!” Martin said. He set foot on the edge of the clearing and he let out a wistful sigh. He eyed the log, and the flat in the ground where the land still lay disturbed from their picnic rendezvous. But there was no sign of Jon. Of course, at this point, Martin just knew he was already there, somewhere, watching, and he smiled at the feel of his unseen presence, cold but comforting like a brisk autumn wind. “I made it. I’m here.”

“Oh, blessings, thank you, thank you,” Jon’s voice sighed, so close to his ear. And there he was, standing there as though he’d been there the whole time. Maybe he had, Martin wasn’t sure how it worked.

Martin turned to him, smiling wide. “Oh, Jon.”

“Good lord!” Tim squawked and leapt back, reaching for his blade. 

“No, Tim, it’s alright!” Martin said, reaching a hand out. “This is my friend, his name is Jon.”

Jon slowly looked Tim up and down, his wings flitting contemplatively. “I am glad to see you made it out.”

Tim slowly lowered his hand from his blade as recognition flooded his eyes. “That voice,” he whispered. He advanced two steps on Jon and broke between his and Martin’s closeness. “You, you were in the tower.”

“I was,” Jon said, plainly, and his wings fanned out. 

Martin recognized the defensive stance and took Jon’s side, laying one reassuring hand on his arm. He felt Jon’s wing brush his shoulder and shivered a bit. Its touch was so gossamer light and yet had a weight to it beyond the physical which Martin could not hope to describe but felt in his mind and at the back of his head. The sensation clung to him there, and while it worried him some it also made him feel… guarded, somehow. 

“Why did you warn me?” Tim demanded. “Why did you send me away? I needed answers, I needed information.”

“And you would find none,” Jon said. He was nearly a head shorter than Tim but with his wings out and his dark eyes staring his presence towered over everyone there. “At least, not at any price you would ever want to pay. More likely than anything, he would have lured you into your own destruction, and that is the best case scenario.” Scowling, he finally let his wings, and his guard, drop. “I will not allow anyone else to enter that wretched place in ignorance as I once did.”

There was a misery in Jon’s face that Martin studied carefully. He wished to dig deep and find the roots of that sadness so that he could help dig them up, relieve him of their burrowing, at least help carry the burden. He opened his mouth, but then drew it shut once more, pulling back all the questions he wanted to ask. It wasn’t his place, it wasn’t the time.

Tim visibly softened, his shoulders and countenance relaxing, and he reached out a hand to Jon. “Then I count you as a friend, which I have few enough of these days. Thank you.”

Jon only stared at his hand, and kept his own close to his chest. “I… you are welcome. I did this out of principle, you should know.”

“A rare thing, principle,” Tim scoffed. “Martin told me your name is Jon? I’m Pr… well, I’m Tim.”

“Tim helped me defeat the Boneturner!” Martin eagerly piped up. He nipped his lip. “Okay. No. Tim defeated the Boneturner while I almost died.”

“You  _ what _ ?” In an instant Jon rounded on Martin. He gathered Martin’s tender face in both his hands, and yet despite the claws on his fingertips he didn’t scratch him a bit, his grip firm but gentle. “Were you hurt? What happened?”

With an airy little laugh, Martin reached up and coaxed Jon’s hands down from his face with a soft touch. He guided them down, and his fingertips lingered on Jon’s skin a moment before letting go. “I’m fine, Jon, I’m fine, I promise. I mean… I was scared and I’ll probably have nightmares about this. But look, I’m still all in one piece. Which is more than I can say for myself if Tim hadn’t gotten there when he did.” He glanced at Tim. “I know I’ve already thanked you but I’ll probably never stop.

“As I said, it was my pleasure,” Tim said, glancing between them. There was something hesitant in my voice, but Martin refrained from remarking.

“Then bless the chance of our meeting,” Jon said to Tim. “If I believed in fate or some benevolent higher power, I would think I were sent to you, or you to me, so that you would make it tonight to help Martin.” He finally reached out one of his clawed hands to Tim. “Thank you.”

Tim reached out and gave Jon the shake he’d intended earlier. “I’d say this makes us even, but Martin says you might be able to help me, so I think I might owe you.”

Jon tipped his head ever so slightly to the side. “Oh?”

“In more ways than one,” Martin interjected. “Jon, you know the safer places around here better than anyone. Do you know somewhere Tim can stay in the Blackwood and remain undisturbed? He’s remaining to help me with my quest, and obviously he cannot return to the castle with me, it isn’t safe.”

“You really think anywhere in the Blackwood is safer?” Jon scoffed.

“You survive out here!” Martin pointed out.

But Jon’s eyes narrowed, and he gathered in on himself. “You do not know what I go through out here.”

There was a pang in Martin’s chest so deep he could swear the Boneturner was digging into him again and twisting his insides. “I… I’m sorry, you’re right. Do… you need me to find  _ you _ a safe place to go?”

“I do not have the option,” Jon said, with a bitter smile.

Martin’s face fell. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop being sorry,” Jon snapped. He stepped back from both of them, receding further into the shadows of the woods. “Do not pity me. The life I am forced to live is my recompense for who I am and what I have done. I am The Beast of Eyes, do not forget. It is a worthy thing, the torments I bear, the de--”

“Lads, lads, please,” Tim cut in. If the name Beast of Eyes meant anything to him, he made no such indication now. “Listen, I can just make camp, I’ve been doing it for weeks on weeks. No need to argue about who needs to put me up. I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.”

“No,” Jon said. All the sharpness in him unbristled and he started to relax. “No, no, I want to help.” He eased himself a bit closer again. “I do not know of a place in this wood that is remotely safe for a mortal man to stay overnight but… I know of somewhere our Tim could go. Only I will need to bring you back a token to prove who sent you. If you can make camp on the edge of the Blackwood just this one night, I will find you in the morning with the object that will serve as your password.”

“Thank you,” Tim said. “I am going to owe you so much when all of this is done.”

“I’m afraid it is I who owes everyone else,” Jon said. “But you are welcome.”

“In the meantime, I’ll find you an out of the way campsite,” Martin offered. He gripped his compass tight and shouldered his pack, now much heavier with what he and Tim had collected from the Boneturner’s cabin. “I need to face my stepfather and tell him I did as he asked, so he can find me a new burden.” He sighed, lingering on the edge of the clearing. “Be safe, Jon?”

“I am never safe,” Jon said. Apparently seeing Martin brace for more bitterness, Jon instead tentatively offered him a smile. “But thank you. You too?”

“Apparently I’m not either,” Martin said, but countered with a grin. “Thank you. Good night, Jon.”

“Good night, both of you. I’ll see you at daybreak, Tim. And Martin--”

“I know, I will,” Martin said, waving him off. “As soon as I know.”

“Wait, how are you going to find me if you’re not coming to the campsite with us?” Tim asked.

“I always know.”

Tim pursed his lips. “Well that’s not ominous.”

Martin just gave Tim a gentle nudge to follow him. “He’s like that, it’s alright. Come along, we need to make quick work if you’ll have enough time for a good night’s rest.” He saw Tim turning back around and shook his head. “No, no, he’s already gone, come along.”

Tim glanced back all the same once, then twice, then gestured broadly toward the clearing. “How did he--”

“I told you. He’s like that.” Martin smiled fondly, then forged forward, still feeling that brush of the wing, and a gaze that lingered with him always, but not in a way he hated.

***

The applause rolled off Martin’s back as he returned home to the capitol once again and marched upon the castle. He could hardly hear it. What a strange thing, to be congratulated for surviving. To be lauded for barely scraping through an attempt on your life. It was strange, though. Martin knew he should be afraid. Yet now the fear seemed so distant, so hard to see. Maybe it was finally having people in his corner. Maybe it was having now twice succeeded where he was expected to fail. Maybe he was just tired, too tired to be afraid. The fear left only anger and determination where once it sat heavy in his chest. Peter would not win. He would not have the kingdom, and he would not have Martin’s life.

There was a bang as Martin threw open the doors of the throne room and marched in.

Peter sat there astride the throne that was Martin’s by right, in solitude as was his custom, with guards stood at the outside of all doors. Of course, no guard would stand between him and the crown prince. “Martin,” he remarked. “It is good to see you, my boy. Was the quest I laid before you too much? Have you come to let your people down and step down from your birthright?”

Martin leveled his gaze on Peter’s. He knew how desperately Peter hated it when anyone met his eye. This is exactly why Martin refused to break eye contact even as he lowered his pack from his shoulder, unfastened the top flap, and upended it. Martin kept Peter’s gaze captive even as the Boneturner’s head clattered to the throne room floor. He was done averting his eyes. He was done keeping his head down.

Thus it was Peter who was forced to look away first. “Heavens, you’ve actually done it,” he said. He clapped his hands, and at the sound, two guards entered the room to come collect the prize and post it. “How is that possible? You haven’t a scratch on you.”

“All in a day’s work for a Hero of the People,” Martin said with a grin. “Turns out, the beast did his dark work without ever breaking the skin. But I suppose… you just don’t know much about magic, do you?” He set his jaw and studied Peter.

Peter watched the head carted off and his solemn, distant smile never broke. “I suppose not. Though I do wonder where you seem to come about such knowledge?”

“I pick things up in my travels.” Martin approached the throne ever closer, shoulders square. “Tell me, stepfather. Is it time yet for my coronation?”

“No, not yet I fear, not yet.” Peter still would not look at him, glaring only at the door through which his guards had departed. “There is still so much to arrange for. A ceremony to plan, distant allies to wait on.”

“It’s funny,” Martin said, casually rubbing the back of his neck, even laughing a little, though it truly wasn’t funny at all. “I don’t seem to recall there was much ceremony at all for  _ your _ coronation.”

Finally, finally Peter rounded on Martin. “There wasn’t time,” he said. “Your mother had passed, it was an emergency, someone needed to ascend the throne immediately.”

“I see, I see,” Martin said, a slight frown, a thoughtful nod. “And… what allies do you have that you’re waiting on, exactly? You always seem to keep so little company.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Well we’re in a mood, aren’t we today,  _ young prince _ ?”

“Forgive me, my travels have been long and tiring,  _ old king _ ,” Martin said.

“And not over yet, I fear,” Peter said. He returned to his throne and sat, made a point of making himself comfortable. “For there is still more that your people need of you. And you  _ do _ love your people, don’t you, oh future king?” He folded his hands neatly in his lap and regarded him with a hollow, false fondness.

“Of course I do,” Martin said, firmly. He returned Peter’s empty smile with one of his own. “Is it not the duty of a king to love and protect his people? Surely you would know.”

“I do,” said Peter darkly, thickly. “Which is the only reason I must ask this terrible deed of you, my only child.”

“I am not your child.”

This got Peter to falter, for just a moment. But just before he spoke again, he finally smiled a smile that was truly genuine. It looked the way a toothache felt and it made Martin sick to see it. “My prince, I need you to go to the lost village, and purge the Spiders’ Den of spiders.”

Martin frowned. He knew of course of the village that had years ago been overtaken by giant spiders. Spiders that no team of knights nor mercenaries sent had yet been able to purge. In fact, Martin had pleaded with Peter to send the army once, but his pleas had been ignored. So the village sat, abandoned, swathed in web and crawling with monsters. And he was meant to go in and purge it alone.

Only, he wasn’t alone, was he?

“It shall be done,” Martin said with a firm nod. He bowed, still keeping his eyes on Peter, and only looked away when he turned to leave. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must retire.”

“You’ve grown so confident recently,” Peter said to his back. “I think I’ll almost miss you when you’re gone.”

There was a sharp cold pang in Martin’s bones that made him stagger as he crossed the threshold to the hall. Well, it seemed there were no pretenses between them anymore. That was all well and good for now.

But if Martin came back one more time, was Peter going to wait for a monster to do the work, or was he finally going to dirty his hands himself?

***

In the dark of the tower, in the still of the night, Jon crept. Jonah was sleeping a floor above, and Jon thanked the dark force which commanded them both for the silence with which he could move. 

He went to Jonah’s cabinet of artifacts, and ever so slowly, gently, nudged one door open. This was the door that was safer, the other one creaked something terrible. Though he had to reach awkwardly around the closed door, he knew well the feel of what he was looking for. His hand closed around the small object, the talisman, and slowly withdrew it, careful not to knock over any tools. 

Finally he had it out, and held it close to his chest, sighing with relief. This despite the terrible pain it put him in to hold it. He felt it radiate out from the center of his chest and through his body, and he could almost weep with it. However, he knew that Tim would be safe from that pain; this pain was for Jon alone. He slipped the little thing into a pouch on his belt, fastened it tight, and nudged the cabinet closed.

For a moment Jon lingered, listening, making sure Jonah didn’t stir, hadn’t been roused from his sleep. When he heard nothing, Jon sighed. “Forgive me,” he whispered. Not to Jonah, but to Gerry, who he knew must be watching him from his mirror, who he knew must resent the risk that Jon was taking. 

But Jon knew what he had to do.

Jon set out into the night with his tiny burden, intent on making it to Tim by daybreak as promised. The Beholding would show him the way, as it showed him so many things. Things he had never asked for, things he had never wanted. It was about time Jon took something instead.


	7. VII: House & Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Please forgive the lateness. Would you believe this chapter is late because I'm actually doing *better* lately, so I'm not laying around in bed as much?
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy, and mind the content warnings. Thanks.

Daybreak was beautiful in the Kingdom of Blackwood, the way sunlight bled through the permanent haze, filtered like watercolors, pale and diffuse. Tim sat up on a stump, watching the sun struggle up through the cool, damp morning. The Tim of a year ago might have laughed at the idea of being up for sunrise; he was never by any means a morning person. In fact, he was more of an up all night, sleep until a servant woke him to let him know his presence was demanded somewhere person. But the way things were now, it was hard to sleep deeply no matter how late he was up. Still, he was glad to be up for this, the sight was beautiful, and he had an appointment to keep.

“Good morning.”

Tim nearly leaped out of his skin. Clutching at his chest, he craned back to see Jon standing at the edge of the forest. “Gods, must you  _ always _ be this spooky?” Tim croaked.

“It’s a condition,” Jon said flatly, and strolled up to join Tim at his side, gazing up at the misty skies Tim had been looking upon.

Tim chuckled. “Hope it’s not terminal.”

“Quite the opposite, I fear,” Jon said with a weary smile. He crouched down and hugged his knees, wings tucked neatly behind him. The bright sky reflected in his dark eyes in a way that gave them a glimmer.

He looked a bit cute this way, Tim thought. Out here in the light, not shrouded in grim darkness.

He shook the thought off. “So… do you have it.”

“I do,” Jon said softly, still keeping eye contact with the sky. “I just… need a moment, that’s all.”

“That’s fair, I’m in no rush,” Tim said with a shrug. He kicked his legs out, having a little stretch. “Long as I’ve got you, I was wondering if I could ask you about something?”

Jon glanced sideward at Tim. “Go on.”

Tim cracked his knuckles. “You know how to kill a fairy? Or… several fairies?”

“You don’t.”

“Oh come on,” Tim scoffed. “Everything dies, somehow.”

“And a fairy dies only when it’s good and ready,” Jon said. He narrowed his eyes. “What suicidal idea has got into your head that you think you want to kill fairies?”

“They killed my family and took what was mine.” Tim could see no reason to hide it. He’d only just met Jon, and yet he didn’t feel like a stranger. After all, he’d already saved him once, even if he’d stood between him and possible answers, and now here he was coming to his aid once again. The least he could hand him back was honesty. 

Jon smirked at that. “Ah, revenge. That old hat. You’re not going to kill them, I’m afraid. If you learn a fairy’s true name you can gain some power over it, or otherwise you can defeat them in games of wits, but combat? No hero nor villain nor army nor navy has ever defeated fairies by force. You’d be lucky if they killed you. Likely they’d do far worse.”

Tim wrapped his arms around himself and his fingertips dug so deep into his own arms it hurt. “Well how do you know?” he spat. His gaze fell to the wings on Jon’s back. “Are  _ you _ a fairy?”

That wrenched a laugh out of Jon that looked like it hurt. “I wish,” he said. “No, no, you would know a fairy if you saw it.”

“How… would I know,” Tim said, hesitantly, and trying to force himself to relax. “Because I didn’t actually see them, I only… heard.”

“Inhumanly beautiful,” Jon said, softly.

“Okay I still don’t see how that rules out you,” said Tim, and gave him a wolfish little grin.

“I, um.” Jon blushed, startled, and his wings briefly flapped as though for want of escape from the situation. Instead, he settled, cleared his throat, and sidestepped the remark entirely. “I should say… emphasis on the  _ inhuman _ . Some texts say a fairy’s beauty is awe-inspiring. This is a mistranslation. If you go back far enough, the texts all say that a fairy’s beauty is  _ horrifying _ . To look upon one is to forget your senses and be overcome.”

“Oh… not going to lie, still sounds a bit like fun.”

“I assure you, it is not.”

Tim sighed. He shifted his weight but could find comfort in no position. Deep down, he still wanted to believe there was a way he could kill those who had killed the people he loved and trusted. He knew Jon wasn’t going to budge on the issue though. He’d just have to find his own answers. “Right. Can I ask you something else then?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Don’t you mean all eyes?”

Jon laughed again. This one was genuine, soft and startled at his own amusement.

Tim wished he could feel the triumph of getting that out of him. “What… what is Martin to you?”

Jon’s face fell slowly as the question settled into him. He turned, his body all coiled up with uncertainty. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Tim said. He looked Jon up and down, took in his wary vulnerability, and did his best not to push him anywhere it might hurt. “I’m just curious, is all. You two seem close.”

“I. Well he’s. I think we.” Jon’s mouth continued to stammer a moment without making sounds. The sun burned brilliantly now, as bright as it could through the thin fog. Jon cast his eyes down from the light in quiet contemplation. “He’s… important to me. That’s all I know. I hadn’t really thought about it before.”

“Fair enough,” Tim said. He’d leave it there, for now. Much as he’d like to understand. Much as he’d like to know where he stood. He rose from his stump and stretched, went to gather up his packed up camp and make sure the fire was well and truly out. “So where am I headed? I should probably be on my way.”

Jon nodded. “Right.” He stood to meet Tim. “There is a village not far from here called Green Arches. You’ll know it by the hills that surround it, and the library tower to the east. When you get there, seek out a woman named Georgina Barker. Georgie. The tavern keeper can probably point you in the right direction, they’re on good terms. It is possible she might be away, as she travels a great deal. If she is, there is a key hidden in the white pot by the azaleas. When you  _ do _ see her though…” Jon fished around in his pouch, dug something out, and pressed it into Tim’s waiting hand. “Give her this, and tell her Jon sent you. And that I am sorry.”

Tim stared down into his hand. What he held now felt somehow much heavier than its small size would indicate. “What is this?”

When Jon replied, he could not look Tim in the eyes. “A promise broken.”

***

Everything was always verdant in the town of Green Arches. Even in the winter when the snows came, the conifer pines and holly remained evergreen. It was the rolling hills that encircled the hamlet which gave it its name, making almost a valley of the place. The town had many good fortunes to its name. Its place far from the capitol and much closer to the Blackwood kept it quiet and far from politics much of the time. The town had not known a monster attack or other such tragedy in recent memory. It was one of the few towns, especially of its size, lucky enough to have a library. It was also a town of much music and revelry and story, with many bards and minstrels calling it home.

When Tim first arrived in Green Arches he loved it on sight. There were people singing and dancing, laughing and clapping in the town square, to fiddle and hurdy gurdy and tambourine. He stole himself a dance or two on his way through, and kissed a couple hands as was his way. If this was where he was meant to lay low, he could get used to it.

Sure enough, as he was promised, the tavern keep was able to point him to the home of Georgie Barker. It was a sweet and modest little cottage in the shadow of the library, completely hemmed in by overgrowth and shrubbery where a garden was perhaps supposed to be. Clearly the home of someone who was almost never home at all. Still, Tim knocked to be courteous, and he knocked once more after that. When no response came, he found the white pot and the key just as he’d been told, and let himself in. “Hello?” he called out, again just to be sure, but no response.

So he set his bags down in the foyer and headed to the kitchen. As long as he was going to make a nuisance of himself, he thought he might as well prepare a meal. He hoped the woman of the house would actually be home tonight or he’d have to eat this all by himself.

It was around the time he had finally finished dressing the ham, lighting the cooking fire, and preparing to place it over when he found himself snagged by the collar with a knife to his throat.

“Woah!” he cried out. “Woah, wait, I can explain!”

Maybe he should have stayed in the town square and kept dancing for the day. Stupid.

“On the table with him!” a woman’s voice called from further away.

Tim was hauled back to the kitchen table and flung onto it. The woman that stood over him now was shockingly petite for her strength, but there was a fire in her eyes and she held that knife in a way that suggested she’d used it before and wasn’t afraid to use it again. Tim swallowed, and hated how the action brought his throat just a bit closer to her blade. “Um… you wouldn’t, by chance, happen to be Georgina, would you?”

“No, I am,” said the other woman, further from him. She came around the table, now standing at his feet where he could see her scrutinizing gaze between the wild curls which framed her face. She crossed her arms tightly. “How do you know my name?”

Tim made sure to keep his hands exactly where they could see them, but he wanted very much to reach for his token, his password. “I was sent--”

“Who sent you?” the woman with the knife hissed, pressing in closer until the live steel knicked at the soft under his chin.

“Would you let me finish!?” Tim cried out. 

“Melanie, please,” the other woman, Georgina, Georgie, said, softly but firmly, holding one hand out to her.

Scowling, Melanie relented and pulled back, but only slightly, her knife still at the ready.   


Tim allowed himself a somewhat deeper breath than he’d dared to take for the past few moments. “I was sent by Jon. He told me this was a safe place. All things considered, not sure he was right.”

“Jon?” Georgie said, squinting. Her countenance darkened like a coming storm, and she approached the table. “No. How dare you. I’ve known only one Jon well enough for him to know where my key is kept, and he was my fiance. And he is dead. He’s been dead for years. So tell me what you’re  _ really  _ doing here, and why you drag out my late betrothed’s name to hurt me like this?”

Melanie grabbed Tim by his dark hair and pulled his head up to bare more of his throat. She leaned in, teeth gritted. “How dare you put my wife through this.”

“I can prove it!” Tim choked, nearly squeaking. “If you’ll just let me reach for my bag!”

“Oh yeah right,” spat Melanie. “Like we’re dumb enough to let you pull your weapon now when we’ve got the upper hand.” She glanced back to the end of the table. “We should finish him now, we’re well within our rights.”

“Melanie… let him.”

“But--”

“I want to know, Melanie. If he does have something… I want to see.”

Mercifully, but begrudgingly, Melanie released Tim and backed away a step, but she was watching him carefully.

Still catching his breath, Tim slowly reached down to the pouch on his hip, making sure the two of them could follow every movement. From the pouch, he withdrew the little token, then sat up, ever so slowly, and held it out to Georgie.

Georgie’s saw it and in an instant her whole posture softened, her eyes growing damp. She lunged forward and snatched it from his grip, holding it up against the cooking fire light, where it glinted. A small, silver ring. A modest band, but with a distinctive filigree engraving. “This is…” She trembled to behold it. “This is the promise ring I gave him.” She turned to Tim with the ring clutched tight in her first. “How did you get this?”

“I told you, he gave it to me,” Tim said, rubbing nervously at his own neck like he could still feel the blade there. “And he told me to tell you that he’s sorry.” Presumably, he thought, for letting her believe he was dead, but he couldn’t be sure.

Tears were starting to roll down Georgie’s cheeks. “Either you’re telling the truth,” she said, “or you know something I don’t about how he died. Whichever it is, I will have answers from you. For now… you may stay.”

“What!?” Melanie cried. “He broke into our house!”

“Is it still a break-in if you use the key?” Tim said. “I rather think I more just… let myself in. Which, admittedly, rude!” He gestured broadly to the cooking fire. “But I was going to make you a ham!”

With a tight frown, Melanie sheathed her knife on her belt. “...fine, we’ll allow it.”

“How gracious,” Tim muttered, and slipped off the table. As he passed Georgie, he paused to whisper, “And I swear to you, on my life and my own dead family, that I will bring you to him so you can see for yourself. He didn’t tell me you thought he was dead. I didn’t know.”

Georgie stood staring into the center of the ring. “If he’s not, I’ll make him wish he was for breaking my heart.”

***

“You’ve really done it now,” Gerry said, equal parts exasperated and miserable.

“I did what had to be done,” Jon said, sat in his pile of hay, toying with the spreading knife he got from Martin, twirling it between his fingers. It was far too dull to do any proper cutting with of course, but it was pretty, with the glint of fine royal silver. 

“No you didn’t!” Gerry cried, frantically tapping on the glass. “You could have left well enough alone! Saving one prince, once, was one thing, but now you’re up to doing favors for two princes, having little rendezvous with them, and now you’re stealing from Jonah for them!”

“I took back what was rightfully mine!” Jon growled, throwing the knife down.

“Nothing is yours! Not here!” Gerry said. He leaned his head against the glass of his mirror and ran his hand down. “You should know that by now.”

“I couldn’t just--” Jon began, but before he could finish his sentence he felt a violent tug through his whole body, pulling him towards the door.

From down below, he could just barely hear Jonah’s voice sweetly singing, “Come hither, my pet.” And Jon was powerless but to obey. He could see the fear and pain and hatred that crossed his face from his reflection in the mirror, and from the way even Gerry’s own expression reflected it back at him in kind.

Jon staggered down the steps, down past Jonah’s quarters, down to the study. Jonah stood, cast in candlelight, his shadows drawn out in odd directions. He stood by the open cabinet, and Jon froze. “I would ask you to explain,” Jonah said softly, smiling, smiling in a way that reminded you why in many species a smile is a threat, or a warning. “But we both know there is nothing you could tell me that would excuse you.”

Jon lowered his head, hands folded, wings folded, making himself as small as he could. “I am sorry, master. I am so sorry. My emotions got the better of me.”

“Really?” Jonah said. “Only just now, after all these years? That ring was a powerful artifact, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, master.”

“It was infused with only the purest heartbreak. It is hard to find something infused with that much raw heartbreak to channel for my spells.”

“I am sorry, master.”

“And now you’ve gone and stolen it out of some… what… some petty, petulant fit?” Jonah clucked his tongue and grabbed Jon by the jaw, forcing him to look at him. “Sorry isn’t enough, Jon. You will need to be punished. You know that, right?”

Jon shuddered, and his eyes stung.

Jonah gripped him a bit tighter. “I said you know that, right?”

“Yes, master,” Jon whispered, and closed his eyes.

Jonah released him and backed off. He stood at his work table, and tapped emphatically at the wood next to his mortar and pestle. “Change for me,” he said.

Jon quivered, suddenly keenly aware of the wings that clung to his back, of their weight and texture. “Please, no,” he whispered.

“You can do it willingly, or I can force you,” Jonah said. He was no longer smiling, and it was hard to tell which was worse. “And I can tell you now, if you do it willingly, it will go a long way to proving to me how sorry you really are.”

Jon gulped down a sob, and he nodded. He closed his eyes, focused on his wings. In the blink of an eye, where Jon once stood there was now a moth, small and nondescript, not unlike any other moth you might see in the wild. He flittered there in the air a moment, hesitating, but soon enough he flew to the spot Jonah had indicated on the work table where he landed, wings fanned out in rest.

Where Jonah promptly brought the pestle down onto Jon’s tiny body, crushing the life out of him, grinding him down against the table.

And Jon was dead.

When Jon woke in the tower loft with a gasp, he could still feel the death pains clinging to him, the crushing in his muscles and bones, the ache and the mortal terror. 

Of course, Jon did not have so much as a moment to recover before he felt that tug in his body again and he knew he was being summoned.

Behind him, Jon heard Gerry’s pained, helpless whimper watching him limp out of the loft to return downstairs.

In the doorway of the study, Jon watched Jonah scrape the little moth corpse off into a jar. Without so much as looking at Jon, he tapped at the wood with a pestle. “Change for me.”

Jon swallowed, looking at the little crumpled body, his body, sitting sadly in the bottom of that jar. He closed his eyes and transformed, because he had no choice.

It was a big jar.

This was going to be a long night.


	8. VIII: True Love Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, please forgive the lateness, it's been A Week, and thanks for your patience.

There once was a traveling bard by the name of Georgie Barker. She spun tales of ghosts and ghouls and monsters by firelight in taverns and town squares, collecting what coppers folk might offer for being regaled. The stories were mostly true. Mostly. A little embellishment to coax a bit of extra coin from a beguiled audience never hurt anyone. Besides, it is good, Georgie thought, to love what you do, and she loved telling an exciting story. 

Her travels took her far and wide across the Kingdom of Blackwood, but it was the town of Green Arches that she called home. It was a wonderful, beautiful place to come back to with a full mind and weary feet. Even the fog which so clouded most of the kingdom failed to cling to bright and lovely Green Arches as tightly.

Of course, when she came home to Green Arches, she also came home to her betrothed. Georgie’s fiance Jon was a sharp-tongued and stubborn man, but the artifice he put on never fooled Georgie, who made her living in facades. And he loved that she could see right through him, he always did, counted on her for it, even. Which was why she promised herself to him, and he to her. To have someone want you to know them completely, and to want them to see your truth in turn, is a remarkable and vulnerable thing. 

As a man of lifelong learning, Georgie always hoped Jon would seek apprenticeship at the local library and that this would sate his thirst for knowledge. Of course, his ambitions ever pulled him elsewhere. Magic. She could understand the draw. The dangers he’d seen in his years were many and terrible, had greyed his hair and put bags under his eyes and kept him awake at night. Yet it always seemed to Georgie that to answer danger with yet more dangerous pursuits was foolish. Usually she could needle her way through his stubbornness to where he was softer and turn him around; he valued her counsel so. But in this, and only this, he remained unswayed.

So when he first breathed the name of the Mage Magnus to her, she could already feel herself beginning to grieve.

Considering the business she was in, she’d of course heard the tales. Many of them she’d repeated herself, punching them up a bit as was her way. Deep down she was never sure how much of what she repeated was true, and how much was fabricated utterly by people like her. Probably very little of it was true, and perhaps the tales of other mages by other names weren’t pseudonyms at all but in actual fact very different people. The main things Georgie knew were this: the Mage Magnus was very powerful, the Mage Magnus was very reclusive, and the Mage Magnus served only his own whims and seemingly appeared to help only when it so pleased him. She really expected Jon to be disappointed, if he ever got there at all.

The night before Jon left, Georgie could hardly sleep at all. 

Maybe it was hypocritical. She traveled alone all the time, after all. But she traveled only known roads in the open country where her greatest fear was the odd bandit, and she was capable enough with a walking stick to defend herself. The Blackwood was a wild and hostile place, full of hungry animals and hungrier monsters.

When he left she could hardly even look at him, she was so preoccupied and angry. She pretended to still be asleep as he slipped out the door. It was her greatest regret that she didn’t kiss him goodbye one last time. That she let her frustration with him get in the way of a parting kiss for her beloved.

For weeks she waited for the letter he promised her. Months.

It never came.

She knew, of course. She knew what must have happened, or otherwise she had a pretty good idea.

But the need for closure ate away at her insides. She had to have proof.

***

In the tower loft, knelt upon the hard stone, Jon screamed and wailed until his voice grew hoarse and broke. He pulled at his wretched new wings with his sharp new claws in the vain hope of pulling them free, but the pain was too great to bear and he could not so much as scratch them, let alone tear. Finally, he crumpled in a shaking heap, gasping painfully for breath.

He should have listened to Georgie.

He always listened to her, her advice was always sound.

Why didn’t he listen to her this time?

Stupid. Stupid.

Of course, she knew he was taking his apprenticeship. Would she come looking for him when he never returned?

“Are you finally done?”

Jon jerked his head up sharply, looking wildly around the room for the speaker. It wasn’t Jonah, couldn’t be Jonah, didn’t have his tenor, his cadence. But he could not see another soul. Outside the door, perhaps?

The voice whistled at him. “Yoo hoo. Hello. Up here.”

Jon’s brows furrowed. He glanced up. His insides felt cold. “...my gods.”

“No gods here, I don’t think,” said the man in the mirror. He stood beside Jon’s reflection just as clear as day, reflecting the form of a man who was not there. But he was  _ there _ , in a sense. “At least, none who care a bit about right and wrong and what you think should be.”

“What are you?” Jon wheezed, his voice still recovering.

“Rude,” said the man in the mirror. “My name is Gerry, first of all. I think once I was Prince Gerard or something, but that doesn’t matter much anymore. Now I am our Jonah’s oh-so-all-seeing magic mirror. Not that he needs me, really, with how powerful he is these days. Which is why he keeps me up here instead of the study. Just as well. At least up here I can choose not to see whatever awful things he’s up to.”

Jon frowned deeply, huddled on the floor and gathered in on himself. His wings still ached from the clawing and pulling. “How long have you been here?”

“What year is it?” Gerry questioned in reply. “Actually… don’t answer that. I’m not sure I even remember what year I’m  _ from _ .”

An answer like that immediately twisted and crushed what thin hope Jon had of rescue or release. Years upon untold years. Centuries, maybe. In fact, some deep innate sense of knowing he could feel itching at the back of his skull told him it was centuries indeed. Jon felt himself starting to well up again.

“Are you going to start carrying on again?” Gerry said. “I mean I get it, I do. I had my share of fits when I was first made, I think. I feel like I remember it like that. I just miss conversation is all, so if you’re going to be indisposed with grieving again, I’ll dismiss myself back to the Place In Between until you’re quite finished.”

Jon took a few deep breaths. They didn’t still the trembling, but they kept down the sobs. “I… no, not yet, not now. I want to talk.” He held himself so tight, imagined someone else was holding him. Someone who cared. 

“Good. Listen, I know this isn’t the ideal situation, being a familiar and all. Bound to someone else’s beck and call. But listen… at least you still have hands and feet.” Gerry rapped on the glass from the other side. “Ones that can actually carry you around. You’re basically a glorified magic errand boy, so you’ll probably get to wander a bit.”

“You don’t suppose he’ll let me go home?” Jon asked. He figured he already knew the answer.

Gerry sighed. “I think by the time you figure out the whole truth of what you really are… you won’t want to.”

Jon sank in place, hanging his head. The stone was already starting to hurt from sitting on it too long. He wondered if Jonah would let him have a bed. “As a magic mirror… you can see anywhere, right? You know things?”

“Yes,” Gerry said. “And you’ll probably learn to know things in your own way too.”

“Can I ask you something, then?”

“Of course.”

“My fiance… is she looking for me? Is she coming here?”

Gerry hesitated, drumming his fingers on the edge of the glass. “Before I tell you, are you  _ sure _ you want to know?”

Jon clenched his eyes shut. “I just need to know that she’s safe.”

Gerry didn’t need even a moment’s time to find what Jon needed to know. “She’s safe,” he promised, “because she already thinks you’re dead.”

***

“I just need to  _ know _ , you know?”

Georgie sat in the tavern by the warmth of the fire, though the mug of mulled wine in her hands was rapidly growing cold. Across from her sat an old friend, Melanie King, a fellow bard who sometimes traveled with her, which was a reassuring thing considering how handy she was with a knife. Georgie needed those skills now more than ever.

“I don’t know what you think we’re going to find,” Melanie said, picking the crust off a slice of bread. “It’s a big forest and, you know, I don’t want to be insensitive, but with the animals--”

“I know, I know,” Georgie cut her off desperately. “But I have the map of the trails he took and I just want to see if I can find… anything. Any sign. And I won’t be as foolish as to travel alone the way he did. So please, Melanie.” Georgie reached forward and gently laid her hand over Melanie’s.

Melanie, halfway through tearing her bread, froze in Georgie’s gaze, and found that she could not say no to her. She hated not being able to say no, and would complain about the endeavor the whole way, but who was she to refuse her oldest friend?

Together they made quick work of the trail, in spite of the overgrowth that forever threatened to encroach the paths and the distant eyes of predators always upon your back. The two of them managed to stealthily evade a mother bear, threaten off some hungry wolves who decided they were too much trouble to hunt, and narrowly escape the many jaws of a chimera. Georgie was growing weary after the first day. Maybe Melanie was right. Maybe this search was just a fool’s errand, and she’d never know for sure what became of her beloved.

It was dawn on the second day when she spotted it. When they’d set up camp the dark had been so thick and perfect it was hard to make out anything about the grove at all. Georgie was strongly considering admitting to Melanie she was giving up. But while they rolled up and tied off the bedrolls, Georgie glimpsed something in the nearby brambles. She ran to fetch it. It was a scrap of torn fabric, fabric from Jon’s traveling cloak. She knew it of course because she’d woven it for him herself, knew by heart the color and pattern she’d had to stare at so long to finish it. “Melanie, here!” she cried. “He’s been here!” She flagged her down with the fabric.

Melanie approached Georgie with a scowl of uncertainty. But when she opened her mouth to question the find, her face fell. “Oh,” she said, softly, staring at the ground.

“What?” Georgie whispered. She followed Melanie’s gaze down.

In the bushes, just below where she’d found the fabric, there was something else. Tucked away, easily missed. But you could just barely see it, the slightest glimpse of skin. It was pallid and ashen, discolored, but Georgie could still tell, in her heart of hearts, whose it was. Tentatively she pushed the branches away, and immediately recoiled with a scream.

It was Jon’s arm, severed at the elbow and slightly chewed on. But in spite of the decay setting in, she could still make out a telltale scar on his forearm from a nasty bug bite he’d once gotten. It was him. He’d been lost to the wood, just like she knew he would be. Eaten like a prey animal before he could ever reach his aspirations. Georgie only hoped it had been quick, that he hadn’t suffered much. 

Melanie was kind enough to help Georgie wrap up the arm to bring home to bury, because she couldn’t bear to touch it. She even searched the area a bit more, but couldn’t find any other trace of him. All the way home, Georgie cradled the bundle in her arms, shaken and silently crying. Melanie hooked an arm around her waist and kept her close, comforting her as best she could.

***

Jon lay in shock on the stone floor, staring at the ceiling. Pain still radiated through his arm, and wouldn’t stop for a long time yet. At some point he was vaguely aware that Gerry had asked if he was okay, but Jon couldn’t answer him. Still, Gerry lingered, sitting on the floor with Jon’s reflection and gently rubbing his shoulder in a way Jon swore he could almost feel.

Jonah had ripped his arm off. Without warning or preparation, Jonah had seized Jon by the wrist and hacked his arm off at the elbow with a machete. And then, as Jon knelt on the floor, screaming, wondering if he was going to bleed to death, if he was going to lose anything else, Jonah had spoken the word, “Change.” 

A strange and irresistible shifting came over Jon, and in the blink of an eye his perspective of the world changed. Everything seemed so big, and his senses were all wrong; his vision was turned all about with colors he had never seen, and his sense of taste and smell came from all over his body. Jonah towered over him, huge and terrible, and Jon cowered from him, unable to comprehend. Jonah plucked him up easily from the floor and held him up to a small mirror on his work bench. He saw himself then, a moth, tiny and delicate, with one foreleg missing. The horror was too much to process in his disorientation. Maybe if he’d been able to collect himself, he would have thought to fly away, but he probably never would have gotten far.

Gently, Jonah laid Jon down on a white-painted board, where he stabbed him through with a pin. Jon twitched there, skewered, and through the pain and the terror there came the slightest sense of relief that, even though he didn’t understand why, he was dying, and this would finally be over.

Then he woke back up in that terrible room, human again, or as close to it as he could ever be. His arm was back, but Jon could see a faint line around his elbow where it had once been taken. A scar. A mark. A reminder from a wretched and merciless demonic master who would never let him forget how he had suffered.

Gerry sat up with him all night, through the panic attacks and the catatonia, patient and quiet, watching over him. But it wasn’t as though either of them needed to sleep.

***

The funeral was a quiet and miserable affair. Jon didn’t have any surviving family, and struggled to make friends, so the only people who came were Georgie and Melanie and a few acquaintances from around town. The whole time the preacher spoke, pretending like he knew anything about Jon, speaking for him like an old family friend and not a stranger, Melanie held Georgie’s hand so tight.

Afterwards the two of them went to the tavern to get well and truly drunk and had a memorial service of their own. Georgie celebrated Jon the way she knew best, through story. She told Melanie about how pretentious she used to think he was when they’d met at the library, sounding like ever the know-it-all, and how funny she thought it was. She told about what a lovely singing voice he had, though he’d never dare perform in public, but sometimes he would sing to Georgie when they were alone. She told about the brief and ill-advised flirtation Jon had with trying to learn to ride a horse, and how many times he fell off before Georgie had to convince him to stop. 

When Melanie walked Georgie home, Georgie clung to her sleeve and asked her not to leave, told her she couldn’t be alone in that house, not tonight, not the night of the funeral, thinking of him. So Melanie stayed. And she never did leave.

In the morning, Georgie woke to a rapping at her window. Curious, she uncoiled from her sheets and went to see. There was a package on her windowsill, accompanied by a messenger merlin, the same who had delivered the summons to Jon. Frowning, Georgie threw open the window. The bird flew away, and Georgie collected the delivery and brought it to her bed. There was a note tied to it, which she untied and read.

_ Dear Ms. Barker, _

_ I have just received word of the passing of my would-be apprentice. This terrible news saddens me, though I am sure not a fraction as much as you. I regret the loss of any eager and talented mind to this would, and would have very much liked to teach him. _

_ I send the attached with my condolences, and hope this small gift is at least some comfort in this difficult time. _

_ Regards _

_ Jonah, the Mage Magnus, Sorcerer of No Man’s Land _

Georgie scowled at the letter and crumpled it up, tossing it into a bin. She had half a mind to toss the gift too, considering its source, but she couldn’t help her curiosity. She teased the paper off, and inside she found a simple pin box. It was a small square frame with a single moth mounted inside behind glass. In fact, it was actually a rather beautiful specimen, she thought, with many intricate eye spots on its wings. So she kept it, and it hangs above her fireplace to this day, just something small to remember him by.

***

Some nights, when Jon dares, and when the mists are thin enough, he likes to go to the very edge of the Blackwood, where he can just barely see the hills of Green Arches in the distance. He hovers at the edge of the forest and dreams of home, and the idea of ever having one again. He wishes that he could see her, that he could explain. But he would be ashamed to let her see what he’s become.

And some days, when the skies are clear enough, Georgie stands atop the hills around Green Arches and looks out to the east, where she can just barely see the dark treetops in the distance, the woods that ate her first love. Then she stops tormenting herself and she goes back home to her wife, to their cat, to their lovely cottage. The next day they set out together to regale the kingdom with tales of ghosts and ghouls and monsters, and of the Beast of Eyes, that mysterious creature which stalks the Blackwood, preying on fear and stealing people away. Sometimes Georgie cannot help but wonder, if in fact the Beast is real at all, if perhaps the very first victim of the Beast of Eyes was her Jon.


	9. IX: Along Came a Spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I'll get back to my Friday update schedule. Thanks for your patience!

Martin traversed the wood one brisk afternoon with fleeting steps. The main thing he had to remember, he told himself, was that he wasn’t alone. He had allies. He had friends. Friends. It occurred to him he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had friends. He had more people he was friendly  _ with _ than he could count on both hands. Besides his late mother and his wicked stepfather, he could not think of a soul he got on poorly with. That was different from having real friends though. Someone you could confide in, someone you could trust. 

Discreetly he’d gone to a falconry and sent out two sea eagles to tell his companions he was ready to meet, hoping that none in the castle had seen what he was up to. He didn’t know who among the court he could trust right now, and who was under his stepfather’s thumb.

Now he arrived at the designated meeting place and found himself surprised by two things.

The first was that Jon did not emerge from the wood the instant he arrived. Martin had grown quite accustomed to Jon simply appearing as he pleased and never being late, so the fact that he was not here worried him some.

The second was that not only had Tim already arrived, he’d brought company. Martin faltered at the edge of the clearing, glancing between the two ladies seated at Tim’s side. “Oh, um. Hello?”

“Martin!” Tim said brightly. “I’ve brought a couple new friends. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I… suppose that’s alright,” Martin ventured, actually not sure if he minded or not. Well, the kindness of strangers had saved him more than once thus far, so he supposed he should have to have faith in Tim’s judgement. His gaze fell to the spry and sharp-eyed woman closest Tim. “Are you sharpening a knife?”

She glanced up from her whetstone through the fringe of her hair at Martin. “What’s it look like?”

“Melanie, manners,” chided the other woman. She rose and gave a quick bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my king.”

“Oh,  _ shit _ , yeah, right.” The first woman, Melanie, hastily rose, never letting go of her knife, and gave a quick bow of her own. “My king.”

“Oh,” Martin said with a light laugh. “Please, I’m not king yet.”

“You are to me,” the first woman said firmly, meeting his eyes with a great confidence. “Peter is no king of mine. He is a cold opportunist who does not care for our kingdom a bit. I trade in tales, and I’ve heard plenty.”

A flush bloomed against Martin’s cheeks. Were there many others who felt this way? Somehow it had never occurred to Martin that maybe the people believed in him. Maybe the people preferred him. Maybe the people saw Peter for what he was, at least in part.

“Georgie and Melanie might be able to help us,” Tim ventured. “At least, I explained to them what was happening, and they volunteered.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly accept,” Martin said, still dithering at the edge of the clearing, not sure of whether to seat himself on one of the logs or stones, or whether to remain standing. “The risk…”

“I must confess, it is not the only reason we are here,” Georgie said.

Martin was about to ask, but his breath caught when he saw a familiar shadow fall in the dim light beside him. He turned with a bright smile. “Jon!”

But Jon wasn’t smiling. He was hunched and withdrawn and looked weary, and when he saw the woman standing across from him his dark eyes went wide. “I’m so sorry,” he said, barely audible.

“Jon, what--?” Martin said. He glanced back over his shoulder.

There was an anger that flickered across Georgie’s face so briefly like a spark off a campfire, glimmering once and then dying. It left in its wake only a smoldering misery and confusion. “You…” she whispered. “You’re…”

Jon flicked his wings. He tried to smile, but it was a fragile thing that crumbled in the attempt. “I wanted to come home. I did. But I had no choice, and it wasn’t safe.”

“Not safe?” Georgie said. She marched up to Martin’s side but didn’t pass him, uncertain how close she should approach. “Jon, do you think I would do something to you? Or that I wouldn’t do anything to protect you if you were in danger?”

“Not safe for  _ you _ ,” Jon said, a little more firmly.

Georgie shook her head, slowly. She advanced one more step forward, but it was Jon who flinched back. Jon, supposedly the monster, timid like a field mouse. “Would  _ you _ have hurt me, Jon?”

“Not on purpose,” Jon whispered. “And if I didn’t,  _ he _ would.”

“Excuse me,” Martin piped up, wringing his hands in the background. “Who is  _ he _ ?”

Jon fell silent, eyeing Martin in trepidation.

Georgie answered for him instead, crossing her arms. “The Mage Magnus.”

Martin’s eyes went wide. Was that why Jon knew so much about how mages and warlocks worked then? He’d heard, vaguely, of the Mage Magnus. But if that was the reason why Jon seemed so broken and miserable and afraid all the time, it didn’t seem right. “I thought… isn’t he supposed to be a man of great feats?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that, studying the scars on his limbs. “Oh, do you want to hear the word of the Mage Magnus? By all means, let me tell you a tale.” The sun clouded over and the Blackwood darkened like night. Jon in the shade of a tree was cast completely in shadow. He raked his claws down its gnarled bark. Slowly his wings unfurled wide, but even in the false night of the Blackwood you could see every gazing eye. “Once upon a time there was a wicked old warlock, and the fool of a young man who would be his prisoner, his prize, his pet, his possession…”

As Jon went on all in the clearing fell into a stunned silence to hear him speak. It felt a bit like the first time Jon had spread his wings before Martin. Enrapturing, paralyzing. And for every turn in the tale, every pain Jon had endured, Martin felt it, in his heart and his skin and his bones. The fear and the grief of entrapment and loss. The existential dread. The agony of torture. Hunger for the pain of others, pushed into the hollow of his body by some unseen distant force. Having almost no relief, save for a friend and a confidant he could never even hold. Martin sobbed but he could hardly make a sound. This was the suffering that birthed the Beast of Eyes. This was the darkness that Jon kept trying to shield from him.

When Jon finished speaking with a sharp, “the end” and dropped down to sit in the dirt, there was not a dry eye in the clearing. Finally a bit of thin light began to filter in through the canopy again.

Tim leaped to his feet as soon as he was able, pawing frantically at his eyes. “What the hell was that!” he cried.

“He’s a goddamn monster,” Melanie said, pointing frantically at him with her knife.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Jon stammered, clutching at his knees, his expression softening. “I didn’t mean to, it gets away from me sometimes.”

“Jon… that hurt,” Georgie said softly, kneeling down opposite him.

He hung his head to hide his own tears from her. “I told you. It’s not safe. I’m not safe.”

But as soon as Martin found enough control in his shaking, weak limbs, he brushed straight past her and gathered Jon into his embrace. He felt the wings beneath his hands, not half as delicate as he expected them to be, but instead how frail Jon’s form seemed against his own.

Jon froze in his grip for just a moment before relaxing his head against his shoulder. “Martin, you shouldn’t…”

“Or what?” Martin scoffed. “Or I’ll catch some accidental bad feelings off you? I already worry about you anyway. Or the Mage Magnus will want to hurt me? He’ll have to get in line. You’re not alone anymore, and I won’t rest until you know that.”

Jon was trembling like a branch in the wind and buried his face in the leather of Martin’s sleeve. If he could burrow in any closer he might disappear. If that was what he wanted, Martin would let him. He would give him a safe place, even if it was only the space between his arms.

Georgie came around beside, and Martin instinctively held Jon tighter, not sure how she’d react.

“You’re the Beast of Eyes?” she whispered. 

“Yes,” Jon mumbled against Martin.

Georgie nodded once. “Okay, that’s… something I’ll learn to deal with. With time. Jon, I’m glad you’re not dead. And I’m still hurt, but I’m not angry. Not with you.”

Jon peeked up, just barely, over the crook of Martin’s arm to see her. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Georgie said. She glanced back at Melanie, who still fiddled with her knife in uncertainty, ready to strike if she had to. “Listen, you should know…”

“You got married, I know,” Jon said. He sat up a bit straighter but didn’t leave Martin’s grip just yet, sheltering against him as long as he could. “I’m glad, I really am. I wanted you to move on.”

Georgie furrowed her brow. “How did you know?”

“I… just know things. It’s part of what I am, sorry.”

“You okay, love?” Melanie asked, stepping up and taking Georgie’s hand.

Quickly Georgie wiped the last of the sadness away from her eyes and nodded. “Yes, yes I think so.”

“Right,” Tim said, stamping his foot emphatically down on a stump. “If storytime is over, I think our king here has a job for us.”

Martin glanced around the assembled company. With Jon cradled close to him, idly rubbing his back, he felt a bit safer to say the terrible thing I have to speak. “First let me say,” he said, “that this is my burden to bear. I won’t have anyone to put themselves at risk for me, and if you find this is too much for you to face, I cannot in good conscience ask you to join me.”

“I believe I’ve stated my case for why I’m standing by you,” Tim remarked.

“I don’t think I’ll feel right sitting idly by while the rightful king is in danger at the hands of our false one,” Georgie said, letting Melanie help her to her feet. She took a moment to brush the soil from her knees.

“And I won’t let her go into danger alone,” Melanie said, holding her wife close. “Besides.” She pointed her knife at Martin. “You. I like you. I like the idea of calling you my king. A bit dopey, but you’re nice. More nice people should be kings.”

Martin leaned back slightly from knifepoint. “Um, thanks.” Reluctantly, he released Jon, leaving him to sit as he rose to speak his piece. “Well, Peter is, ah, ‘escalating’ would be putting it mildly. The quest he’s sent me on this time is… it’s a lot. He um…” Martin clutched his hands together tight. There was no good way to say this, so he might as well just get it out. “He wants me to purge the Spiders’ Den of spiders.”

Beside him, Jon sprang to his feet. “ _ Excuse me? _ ”

“Oh, Jon,” Georgie said, softly, sympathetically.

“Entire armies have not been able to clear that forsaken village!” Jon cried out.

“Yes, I  _ am _ aware,” Martin responded, hands folded together. “This is my kingdom.”

“Jon grew up there,” Georgie interjected.

A soft gasp tumbled out of Martin. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Is it insensitive to discuss this in front of you? We could talk about this later.”

“I don’t want you to talk about it at all!” Jon cried out. “This is madness! You’ll be killed!” He buried his fingers in his tangled black and gray hair.

“Afraid I don’t have much choice,” Martin said softly.

“Quick question,” Tim piped up, wandering closer to Martin. “Did Peter say the town still has to be  _ standing _ when you’re done? Because fire springs to mind. And lots of it.”

“Gunpowder,” Melanie offered.

Tim snapped and pointed at Melanie with both hands. “You, I like you.”

“I tried to kill you,” Melanie reminded him.

“Lots of people have tried to kill me!” Tim replied, waving her off. “You’re not special!”

Martin sighed. “Look, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I prefer to avoid a scorched earth approach if possible. It’s part of my kingdom, I’d like for people to, y’know, live there.”

“I’m just saying, let’s leave it on the table,” said Tim. “A lot of ash and no town is better than a lot of spiders and a town.”

Jon shook his head, pulled at his hair, paced restlessly. “No, no, you can’t. All of you, you can’t. Martin, listen, I’ll… I’ll find you a safe house. You can go into hiding, somewhere far away from your stepfather. Tim, we can search for another way to take back your throne. Games of wits are probably the way to go. Georgie! You can take him to the library, and we can...”

“Jon, I thought you wanted to see me be king,” Martin said, turning to him, taking him by the arm to gently stop him in his tracks. “All that business about not wanting men like my stepfather in power anymore, I’m guessing because of what you’ve been through. I won’t leave my people to him. I can’t.”

“You’ll be killed,” Jon said. It was clear from the straining of his face that he was trying to keep the tears from welling up, but they were just under the surface. His voice broke with a mix of sorrow and anger. “You almost died to the Boneturner as is, if you weren’t lucky enough to have Tim show up. But this time it won’t be enough. Even with the four of you, it won’t be enough. Don’t be an idiot, Martin, he’s set you up against a challenge you  _ cannot _ best, and he knows it.”

“I’m not an idiot!” Martin cried. “I am simply doing what must be done!”

“And all the more the fool you are for falling into his farce of Heroes of the People and Quests to be Won!” Jon snarled. He tore away from Martin’s grip. “I cannot stand idly by while people I care about speak openly about throwing their lives away for a doomed expedition at the command of an evil and conniving man!”

Martin fell a step back from Jon and felt his heart squirming in his tightening chest. “Then go,” he said softly.

Jon’s visible anger began to melt. “What?”

“I can’t abandon my people, and playing this part, assuming this role… it’s my only recourse right now,” said Martin. “You may not believe it possible but I have to find a way, and I will.”

“And I will not abandon my friend and ally,” Tim said, standing at Martin’s side.

Georgie joined them. “And I will not abandon my king.”

“Nor I my wife,” said Melanie, finally sheathing her knife. 

“Martin,” Jon whispered, just across the clearing from the lot of them but looking for all the world miles away. “I… forbid you.” He spread his wings out. “I will not allow this, not from any of you.”

Martin felt the tingle of that paralysis at the edge of his being, but he flexed his fingers slightly, and he smirked. “You don’t have it in you to command me like that, do you?”

Jon’s wings drooped, and he sank in place. “I don’t know if I have it in me to lose all of you at once, either,” he said. “Not after everything. Not when I’ve been so alone for so long.”

Under his fingertips, Martin could still feel the texture of the scales of Jon’s wings, where he’d held him, safe against his chest. “You won’t. I swear to you, you won’t. I’m going to come back to you.”

But Jon was turning his back to him, receding into the shadows. “Don’t make me a promise you can’t keep.” He crossed behind a tree and was gone.

Martin’s heart ached to watch him go.

“It’s amazing how much he’s changed and how much he’s still the same,” Georgie said. “Still so dreadfully stubborn.”

“Do you ever get used to seeing him walk away?” Martin asked.

“I’ll let you know,” said Georgie.

***

Within the Blackwood, the waters run muddy red with silt and iron. Fresh springs are a difficult thing to find. Yet in the very heart of the Blackwood, there is one small pond where the water is perfectly clear. This is called the Reflecting Pool. It is a magically imbued place, which is perhaps why the animals dare not drink there and the mosquitoes dare not breed. If a mirror is a powerful artifact of divination and communication, then the Reflecting Pool beats its strength by hundreds of times. A tiny moth of no known species, littered in eyespots, alighted on a branch near the pool, and with one more quick flap of its wings became Jon once again.

Jon knelt by those pristine waters, shivering, and stared at his own stricken face revealed back to him. He had half a mind to slap at the water, but dare not disturb the surface, lest he perhaps break whatever enchantment held this place. He could feel it running through his bones and the fibers of his wings, and he shivered with the cold of its flowing. 

He knew he could not allow his friends to undertake the task they were so set on. It was certain death for all of them. He knew this because he had seen countless die to the spiders’ jaws, and even when one spider was felled there always seemed to be at least two more to take its place. 

Of course, his power on its own was not enough to help them. His hypnotic powers did not work on beasts, his claws were barely long enough to break skin, and emotional damage did not slow a spider. There was nothing Gerry could do with his own power save for remote viewing. Of course, he dare not barter with Jonah for aid, for if Jonah knew there was something important enough to him to try to save, he could also take it away. He would not subject Martin nor Tim nor Georgie and her lady wife to Jonah’s whims and mercy. 

This left Jon with only one option.

Jon pressed his claw to his own fingertip and hissed as he sunk it in. He extended his hand over the lake’s water, and let his magic-tainted blood drip into the waters. He saw a swirl beginning to form. Widening concentric circles. An opening eye.

“Hear me,” Jon spoke, deeply, clearly, “oh Ceaseless Watcher who holds me forever in your infernal gaze. My terrible god, my demonic master to whom I am eternally beholden. Your lowly servant begs of you your aid.”

Jon swore he could feel the eyes of every creature in the forest turn to him at once. Even his own reflection seemed to be staring at him in an entirely new way. Jon trembled, he wanted to shut his eyes and hide but he knew if he did the spell would be broken.

“I wish to offer you a trade,” Jon announced to all that watched him. “I ask that you, in all your power, drive the spiders from the lost village now known as the Spiders’ Den. Slay them, or drive them back to the woods from whence they came. Shield those who are planning to come hunt them from their terrible gazes.”

Jon stared into the palms of his hands, and the blood that still pooled at his fingertip. “In exchange,” he said. “I offer you a sacrifice. I was created in part to suffer for you, to honor you with my pain. To that end, for as long as you see fit…” He took a deep breath, clenched his fists. The deepest fears, rooted far back in his childhood, were blooming inside him once again. “I will give myself to them. To the spiders. Allow them to hunt me, poison me, feed on me, only to be reborn again with each death, until you are satisfied.” He met his own gaze in the Reflecting Pool, pleading with the very act of staring. “Is this a fair price? Do you accept my bargain?”

Silence responded to him. But he still felt all those eyes watching him. He knew it was still there.

“Please.” A single tear fell from Jon’s real eye, and into the matching one in his reflection. Slight ripples broke his visage, but in their movements he swore an eye open up wide, and then close.

And he Knew. He Knew his price was accepted.

Jon sighed, and he pushed himself up to his feet. There was a lot of ground to cover to get to that awful village he’d once called home. But he already had a head start.

Genuinely, Jon didn’t know if he would survive this. If the last death he died in that town would be his last. It would be appropriate, wouldn’t it? For the first threat he’d ever survived, the one that had inspired him to magic, the one that had driven him into Jonah’s hands in the first place, to be the one to finally end him. 

Yet he laughed weakly, brokenly, to think of it as he walked, for he could walk far faster than he could fly as a moth, and his wings would not carry his weight as a man. What was his life compared to the lives of those he cared for most dearly? What was his value against people who might actually make a difference in this terrible world? And wouldn’t it really sour Jonah to think he couldn’t choose Jon’s death in the end, because Jon had gone over his head with it? A little bit of spite to take the edge off Jon’s terror.

When finally Jon saw the decaying silhouette of his old village in the distance, and the things that scuttled among the rooftops, he kept thoughts of Martin and Tim and Georgie in his heart to keep him brave.

Then, Jon finally went home.


	10. X: Prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand emails still might be fudged a bit right now but... I wanted to release this chapter into the world. So here you go.
> 
> Also hey, finally have the final chapter count pegged down! So there you go.

In the end, Martin had persuaded them to use fire as a distraction, and not as the main plan. Now, the main plan did in fact involve a lot of cannon fire, and much of the town might be destroyed, but as long as something was still standing in the end, Martin was satisfied that the job would be done. They would set the fires to draw the spiders’ attention, make them think the attack was coming from a different angle, and blast the horde from the other side, picking off stragglers with a number of pre-loaded muskets. Swords were a last resort, as the spiders were meant to be quite deadly at close range.

Martin really hoped it didn’t come to that.

They had hired a horse to haul their artillery, which Georgie drove because it turned out she was quite good with animals. The rest of them simply walked alongside. It had been quite a journey indeed, and had taken them a few days to wrangle the supplies and travel north from Green Arches to the Spiders’ Den.

En route, Tim had been working through some things.

“The way I see it,” said Tim, kicking a small rock out of his way, “the traitor must be someone who knows something about the castle. I thought maybe it might be the architect who built our last outbuilding, but Robert Smirke’s been dead a few years, as it turns out. Then I thought, perhaps the mage who last fortified the enchantments, but nobody’s heard from Elias Bouchard for some time. Now, that doesn’t mean it’s  _ not _ him.”

“There’s the rumor he and the Mage Magnus are the same man,” said Georgie. “We could ask Jon if that’s the case.”

Tim narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. “Yeah. I could stand to have a few words with him anyway.”

“Please don’t pick a fight with a very powerful mage right now,” said Martin, adjusting the weight of his sword on his hip. “I have enough to worry about as it is without you going off to get yourself killed.”

“Oh, like you don’t want to have a jab at him yourself, after what he did to our Jon,” Tim said, clapping Martin on the shoulder.

Martin didn’t quite meet his eyes. “That’s… well that’s besides the point, I’m still not going to do it right now. Too dangerous, especially when one warlock already wants me dead. Can’t fight a warlock properly without destroying their pact first, anyhow.”

Tim opened his mouth quizzically and then promptly collided with Melanie’s outstretched arm.

“Hold up,” Melanie said. “Something’s wrong.” She pointed her knife out ahead.

There were shadows shifting in the afternoon mist, the movements of silhouettes rippling like waves on the ocean. These weren’t human figures, not by far.

Martin drew his blade, and all his insides chilled at the sight. “We weren’t supposed to see spiders out this far,” he said.

“I don’t think spiders care about boundaries,” said Tim. He was a bit quicker on the draw, and as the first trio of giant spiders lumbered forth, each easily standing as tall as their carthorse, Tim swept off one of their heads in one fluid swing.

Martin took his side, sword at the ready and prepared to defend him from the counterattack.

The counterattack never came.

Even as their fellow fell dead. Even as the horse reared and whinnied in fear, Georgie struggling with the reins. Even as Martin was brushed by one of its huge and terrible hairy legs, the spiders strode straight past as though the lot of them weren’t even there. 

Experimentally, Melanie flung one of her daggers into a passing spider’s abdomen.

“Melanie, what are you doing!” Georgie cried out, still struggling with a horse that desperately wished to bolt with all their munitions.

Melanie shushed her wife and pointed.

Though the spider let out a squealing hiss of distress, it did not so much as look back to where the blow came from. It simply ambled away.

“I think your problem might be taking care of itself, my king,” Melanie said.

Martin shook his head. “No, something’s wrong.” He strode ahead, pushing into the fog. Another great spider scuttled past him, and this time there wasn’t even an ounce of fear in him as they crossed paths. The spiders didn’t see him. They couldn’t see him. Spiders which had ravaged mercenary bands and countless troops simply wandered off now into the distant forest without a care in the world.

The fog of Blackwood parted for the village now called the Spider’s Den, and it stood empty.

Cobwebs hung vacant from roofs and spires. Giant egg sacs sagged empty in the town square. One more spider clamored up over the crumbling town walls and made its way towards the Blackwood itself, and that was that. Here stood the Spiders’ Den, empty of spiders before he could ever lay a hand on it.

Martin wished that fact gave him any amount of solace.

“Hello?” he called into the empty town, listening to his voice bounce around the roads and alleys, between abandoned buildings and decrepit lots.

Martin tread cautiously, sword drawn, glancing into every shadowy doorway for some sign of life. Someone had done this. After years and years, a horde of malicious monster spiders don’t simply decide to up and vacate on their own. “Is anyone there?”

“Martin, be careful!” he heard Tim calling after him.

But Martin didn’t reply. In an old churchyard, between two trees, he saw a giant web. There was a figure all wound up in spidersilk hanging there. But Martin could still see a glimpse of olive brown wings peeking out between the strands.

“No,” he whispered. He broke into a run, cold sweat pricking at his temples, his heart and his lungs all tangled up in each other. “No, no, please. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t. Not by yourself. Not like this.” Martin swung his sword and struck the web down. The bundle dropped from above, crumpled in a heap on the dead grass below. Martin dropped his sword beside it and took out instead his pocket knife, cutting frantically at the silken bonds. “Please.”

“Oh gods, what has he done,” he heard Tim’s voice behind him, but distantly, as though through water.

Jon looked so hollow and broken in his arms, face pale, cheeks sunken, his closed eyelids dark as though bruised. He was all curled up in the silk, huddled, contracted, limbs crossed over his chest. He was so, so still. 

Martin sobbed and reached to brush back Jon’s hair. He felt Tim kneel beside him and leaned against him for strength without a second thought. 

Tim braced Martin’s back with one hand, and with the other caressed Jon’s bony cheek. “Idiot,” he hissed.

“No no no,” Martin choked out. “I’m not ready. I’m not--”

And as Martin’s first tear splashed down on Jon’s forehead, he coughed and twitched.

Martin gasped. “Alive! He’s alive, oh thank the heavens and the earth, thank you. Jon, we’re here, you’re safe now.”

Jon’s eyelids fluttered open. His eyes were bloodshot and distant. He struggled for breath and clutched at Martin’s sleeve with his brittle claws. “Hello,” he wheezed.

A nervous smile perched on Martin’s face. “Hi.”

Tim leaned in a bit closer. There was a darkness in his eyes, a storm rumbling inside him. “How fucking dare you,” he growled. 

Jon squinted in the cast of his shadow. “Wh… what? I. Look I fixed it for you.”

“Did we fucking ask you to?” Tim snapped. “After all that going on and on about how it wasn’t safe for us, how you didn’t want to lose us, you go and throw yourself into the middle of it. Did you stop to think about what you were doing to Martin, throwing yourself away like that?”

“Tim, please,” Martin whispered. He wanted to cling to the relief. He didn’t want to think about how upset he, in fact, was.

“I was protecting him,” he said. “I was protecting all of you.”

“And you matter to us too, you selfish bastard!” said Tim. “You melodramatically go on and on about not wanting to lose us. Well what about us losing you?”

“It was… more important…” Jon struggled to say.

“Stop it, both of you,” Martin said, his voice cutting between them. He carefully cut away the rest of Jon’s bonds and helped him sit up. “Jon… I wish you would have told us your plan. I don’t want this for you. I don’t want to see you hurt. And don’t you dare start telling me how you’re a monster and you deserve it, a monster wouldn’t try to give his life to protect his friends. It’s a lovely sentiment but I don’t want it. I don’t want anyone to ever give their life for me. Do you understand?”

Jon hung his head, wrapping himself up in frail limbs. “I didn’t see another way.”

“Maybe if you fucking talked to us,” Tim said.

“For once, let me help you instead,” Martin offered.

“Good lord, Jon.” Martin heard Georgie behind him, having just caught up, presumably after dealing with the horse. “You always did have a way of self-sacrificing but this is a new low.”

“Georgie, Melanie, clear room in the cart for him?” Martin said. “We need to escort him back to the previous village, get him nursed back to health.”

Frantically Jon shook his head and shied back from Martin. “No, no, it’s not safe for me to be around other people right now. It’s not safe. ”

“Nonsense,” Martin spat. “Um… I don’t know if a traditional medic will be able to do the job. Do they have a healing mage?”

“Don’t recall from the last time I performed there,” said Melanie. “But it’s a big enough settlement there should at least be a magical apothecary if there isn’t a healer.”

“Please, I just need to be alone,” Jon insisted, digging his claws into the soil beneath him.

“Not a chance,” Martin insisted. “I am  _ going _ to take care of you. You deserve to have someone take care of you whether you like it or not.”

Jon hefted a deep sigh. In an instant, between his collected friends, Jon disappeared, leaving in his place a fluttering moth, covered in distinctive eye spots, like no species Martin had ever seen. In spiraling movements he flew up and flitted away from them, making his way for the woods in darting starts and stops. “Woah,” Martin said in gentle awe. “Is that how he does it?”

“Who does that bastard think he is?” said Tim. “Making us worry like that and then just taking off.”

Martin pushed himself to his feet beside Tim. “Head back,” he told the others.

“What, and leave you alone now too?” Melanie scoffed, incredulous.

“I don’t want to swarm him, I think he’s overwhelmed,” said Martin. “Let me look to him. You can start making your way back home. Jon was probably onto something with the library, you should get to work on your fairy research. I’m going to go collect that spider head you lopped off then follow Jon, try to talk him down.”

“Just be careful, alright?” Tim said. “And if you get the chance you make sure to tell him I don’t forgive him for this little stunt, and I won’t until he proves to us that he cares about our feelings for him.”

“Not sure that will help,” said Martin, “but I’ll keep it in mind.” He collected his sword and headed off towards the forest then, wondering if finding a single moth in the woods would be like finding a needle in a haystack, or worse. At least a needle in a haystack you could roll around until you hurt yourself on it.

Behind him, Martin heard Melanie softly ask, “Georgie, you okay?”

To which Georgie’s shaking voice replied. “Jon, he… well, he looked familiar like that.”

***

Martin stepped carefully through the shadows of the Blackwood. Daylight was failing and the trail was harder and harder to find. Martin could barely see his feet in front of him, and the dark of twilight was hemming in fast. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should have brought along at least one of them. But Tim was angry and confrontational, Georgie seemed stressed, and Melanie would surely want to stay by Georgie’s side for that. If this search took much longer, Martin thought, he would need to set up a makeshift camp and wait out the night. Of course, by then, Jon could be just about anywhere. The forest was his domain, after all. At least, it was as close to a domain of his own that he had.

“Jon, can you hear me?” Martin said. He spoke it, but didn’t shout. He knew better now than to shout here of all places. He had far too much experience with the Blackwood under his belt. “Jon, please can we talk? We’re not… well,  _ I’m _ not angry. I’m just worried.”

There was no reply. Martin hoped Jon wasn’t just ignoring him.

Ahead, between the trees, Martin could see a flicker of light. Settling one hand on the hilt of his blade, Martin edged forward to see if the source was friend or foe.

There was a torch pitched in the ground, next to some firewood cut from an old stump. An axe was settled into the ground not far from it. 

A few yards further stood the owner of the axe. He was frozen, rigid, arms locked at his sides, staring blankly ahead. 

And before him stood Jon, wings spread wide, the woodcutter fixed in their countless gazes. Jon’s hands were held to either side of his face, claws sunk slightly into his cheeks to hold him there.

The woodcutter was speaking, words tumbling helplessly out of him.

“So me and my boy, we went into the woods with our bows ready. Each of us a sharp shot, you understand. But we had to know what had spooked our sheep so. We had to know it wouldn’t come back to pick off our livestock. It was unnatural quiet that morning, the way no forest ever should be.”

The woodcutter’s limbs all shook for want of bolting.

“That’s when we found them there. The wolves. I say wolves because I would swear to you in the moment that’s what I saw, that’s what they looked like. But they weren’t like any wolf I ever saw. They showed no fear. No growls, no raised haunches, no bared teeth. The whole lot of them stared at us, patient as anything.”

With every word spoken, Jon looked fuller, healthier. Almost radiant.

“They strolled right up to us like pet hounds, calm and casual. My boy tried to back away, but fool that I am I… I took a shot. And I hit one too, I did, square between the eyes. Didn’t matter. They advanced just the same, unhurt, unfazed, and they… they took my boy. Seized him in their jaws as easy as you please and dragged him off with them. It was so slow. I could have fought. I could have grabbed him. But all I did was stare. I watched them take my only son away. Sometimes at night, when the wolves howl, I swear I can still hear his screaming underneath it. And I know I deserve to be haunted by it.”

With that, Jon released him from his claws and folded back his wings. “The end,” he sighed. “Thank you.”

The woodcutter staggered back with a gasp. “Monster, beast,” he choked. Abandoning axe and torch alike, he simply bolted, making his way toward the edge of the wood. 

Jon watched him go. Then, in the light of the match, he caught a glimpse of Martin’s face. The contentment on his face melted away. “What are you doing here.”

“What was that?” Martin breathed, bracing himself against a tree. “What did you do?”

“Have you forgotten so soon what I am?” Jon said, a bitter grimace twisting his face, though he laughed despite it. “Despite your protestations to the contrary, I remain a monster. I am the Beast of Eyes, and I cannot change my nature. And being that I was wounded, I had to feed to regain my strength.” He tipped his head. “Oh, but you wanted me to live, yes? Second guessing that now, are we? I can see your disgust in the pallor of your face. Maybe you should have finished me off when I first offered you the chance.”

“Jon, no, I,” Martin said in several stammering false starts, but he could not think how to finish the sentence. He was, yes, horrified. But, he thought, maybe he wasn’t horrified enough. Because he still wanted to go to Jon. Still wanted to hold him, to reassure him.

Jon would not give him the chance. “You should go back to Tim and the others,” he said. “Tim is… he’s good for you, Martin. He can be something to you that I could never be.”

“That may be,” said Martin, “but--” He was going to say that Jon, too, was something irreplaceable to him. Something of cherished importance. That whatever Jon was going through, he wanted to help him, to show him there was still another way, to be the support Jon never had. But Jon was already gone, turned and flying away. Martin rushed into the woodcutter’s clearing with half a mind to try to catch Jon in his bare hands, but it is a harder thing to catch a moth than Martin imagined, and as Martin stumbled over roots and ducked between trees, Jon weaved away easily. 

“You can’t stop me caring for you!” Martin cried about, a bit louder than he was comfortable, but unable to contain the compulsion. “It’s far too late for that!”

Now he stood alone, in the cold and the dark.

It was far, far too late to stop the thing that had blossomed in his chest, that ached there every day. He clutched now at his heart to feel that emotion alive inside him, stirring restlessly. 

He would be back for Jon, for his dear Jon, and he would show him he was more than the monster he saw in himself. He would find a way.

For now, he had to take the grim burden stowed in his pack back to the kingdom, and he had to face Peter, who would surely be shocked to see him alive again.

It seemed that they all had their webs to walk into.


	11. XI: Red Riding Hood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the unplanned hiatus! As you may have noticed, Everything Happens So Much. I needed to focus on the world, and on myself, and as such there was no room for the fic. 
> 
> On that note, I want to make it clear at the top that Black Lives Matter, and anyone who has an issue with that sentiment is free to stop reading. 
> 
> So take care of yourselves, take care of each other, fight the good fight in whatever ways you are able, there is a better world possible if we are diligent and brave and we refuse to back down.
> 
> All that said, I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Tim and Melanie sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, picking at their dinners. It had been a bitter and grueling trek back to Green Arches, and few words were spoken. Now, here at the dinner table, Melanie was the first to break the silence.

“I still think we should have waited up for them,” she said, jabbing at a bit of salt pork with her knife.

Tim did not eat his meal so much as he idly pushed it around his plate. “Martin made his choice,” he muttered. “And he told us to go on ahead. So be it, if that suits him. They all made their fucking choices.” He took a bite and seemed none too pleased about it.

Melanie snorted, rolled her eyes, and bit a hunk of pork off her knife.

Tim glanced up from his plate at her. “What,” he said, flat, low, less a question and more a demand.

“This petty little act you’re putting on is kind of pathetic, honestly,” Melanie said with a shrug. She laid her knife down, as it was somewhat harder to eat soup off the edge of a blade.

“Excuse me?” Tim said, sitting up straighter. “What act? I’m honestly furious. Jon puts on that whole pomp and circumstance about us walking into danger, throws himself into danger without a second thought, and Martin just runs off after him!”

“There, you see,” Melanie said, soaking a crust of bread in her soup. “You can pretend all you want like you don’t care, but it’s obvious you’re mad precisely because you  _ do _ care.”

Tim’s face twitched, a scowl ebbing and flowing across his countenance but never quite sticking. “So?”

“So if you care, stop sulking and moaning and make a plan with us.”

Tim sighed deeply and leaned back, tipping his chair back ever so slightly from the table. He was angry, it boiled in his bones. But it was hurt that lit the fire under that anger. A fire he could never put out if he abandoned them now. He glanced over at Georgie, grounding himself on her presence.

Georgie stood with her back to both of them. She was at the hearth, where she’d cooked their stew and baked their bread. Now she stood staring into the flames, watching the framed, pinned moth burn. A pyre for her once fiance and what they could have had.

Tim wondered why he felt guilty when he thought of that.

“Martin was right,” Georgie said softly, drumming her fingertips against the mantle.

“About running off?” Tim asked.

Georgie gently shook her head, eyes still fixed on the dancing flames and the ash that was the moth. “About going to the library.”

Tim set his jaw and righted his chair. “Oh, believe you me, I’d love nothing better than to get to work on dealing with the fae.”

“Yes,” Georgie said, “and while we’re there, we can deal with another little problem too.”

Melanie picked up her bowl to sip the last of her broth. “Which is?”

Georgie looked back over her shoulder at them. “I want to know how we can kill the Mage Magnus.”

***

The library tower in Green Arches was a modest structure of wood and thatch, and to call it a tower was honestly a bit generous; even the inn stood taller, and the inn at Green Arches never had much call for guests. Still, the people of Green Arches loved their library, and the village boasted a higher rate of literacy than many of the other towns in the area. There were a number of people mulling about its grounds and stacks, and as such it was a tall order to keep a low profile in such a place.

“Jon was first called to serve the Mage Magnus here,” Georgie said softly, “so there has to be something we can learn here. Something about his history, about warlocks, about anything.”

“Maybe we can find a way to deal with ol’ Peter while we’re at it,” Melanie muttered.

“Agreed,” whispered Georgie back, leaning in close, “but let’s maybe keep the regicide talk at a minimum? We’re not alone here.”

“Sure, fine, fine,” Melanie said with a sigh. She glanced at Tim. “We can start off in the section on the fair folk, I’m sure information on mages and magic must be… adjacent? Probably?”

“You know we can just ask a librarian, right?” said Tim.

Georgie’s shoulders tensed. “We’ll have to be very careful.”

Tim waved her off. “It’s fine, listen. All librarians in the kingdoms are trained under the Order of Scholars. They have this whole motto or philosophy, something about… knowledge for its own sake, or knowledge above all, or something something. Point is, they’re meant to be sworn to provide knowledge to anyone who asks, for any reason, to the best of their ability and honesty. I should know, my best friend is in the Order.” His steps faltered a moment. “...oh, Sash, I hope she’s alright.”

Melanie placed a supportive hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Me too, buddy.”

“Alright, well, if you feel confident dealing with librarians, want to take the lead on this?” Georgie asked.

This managed to rouse Tim from his anxieties for the moment. He smirked. “Gladly.”

The librarian sat at their desk, by candlelight to compensate for the shadows cast over them by the towering shelves of books and scrolls. In a huge ledger, they scribbled out the names of tomes being added to the collection. 

Tim leaned over the counter on his elbows and added his shadow to the ones cast over the librarian. “Hello there,” he said softly. His eyes drifted down to their slender fingers clutched around their quill. “Forgive me for interrupting the hard work of a lovely professional such as yourself, but I could really use some assistance, and I think you’re the perfect person to do so, if I might say so myself. I really would be lucky to have your…” He nipped his lip and locked eyes with them. “Aid.”

The librarian stared at him and blushed. “Ah.”

Melanie, standing a yard or so back from Tim, frowned ever so slightly. “ _ Ah _ .”

Immediately the librarian set to fussing with their hair, fumbling to nudge it into place just so. “Yes, what can I help you with?”

“I have to say, just looking at you has inspired me to learn a bit about magic,” said Tim, resting his chin in his hand. It was, quite honestly, helping dissipate the anger. This was his comfort zone, this made things feel right. Just him and someone lovely, and a goal in mind.

Flustered, they dropped their quill. “Oh, you, um, you don’t say.”

Tim heard Melanie groan behind him, and chose to ignore it. “You don’t happen to have information on the fairer folk do you? You seem like the type who would know a thing or two.”

Flushed beet red, the librarian averted eye contact and took to thumbing through their ledger. “Not much, I’m afraid. And little of what we do have is written in the common tongue.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Tim, batting his eyes. “I’m trained in  _ many _ tongues.” He winked.

The librarian let out a strangled little sound.

Georgie barged in beside Tim and nudged him aside. “Yes, hello. I’m with him. Don’t mind him, he’s insufferable.”

Thrown off his rhythm, Tim pouted at Georgie. “Hey! I’m plenty sufferable.”

“Could you just kindly point us in the direction of books on magical creatures, and the use of magic?” Georgie said, hands folded together and smiling politely.   
  
“Oh, yes, uh, second floor, but again, I’m afraid it’s largely theoretical and historical. If you want practical, we don’t have many resources on that.” The librarian leaned down to fetch their quill and attempted to recompose themselves.

“Historical can probably still help us,” Melanie said, joining the others. She grabbed Tim by the arm and gave him a good yank. “Come on.”

As the three retreated, the librarian piped up, “If you can’t find what you’re looking for, you might try to get in touch with the Mage Magnus?”

All three froze midstep. Tim glanced back at the librarian. His light and flirty demeanor sank away, down with his mood into the base of his gut. He remembered Sasha, so plainly sending him away to seek the Mage Magnus when he was in need. “Why do you say that?” he asked, voice low. It wasn’t a threat, but neither was it peaceful. “Isn’t he meant to be reclusive? Hard to reach?”

The librarian sank in their seat in newfound uncertainty. “Well, yes,” they admitted. “But… he is also a great patron of this organization. We have a great respect for the Mage Magnus among the Order, and surely if anyone knows the information you seek, it’s him.”

Tim wrenched himself free of Melanie’s grip and marched back over to the desk. This time when he leaned over the librarian, his shadow seemed so much darker. “How can you be sure?” he demanded. “Have you ever met him?”

“Well, well no.”

“Then why do you send people to seek knowledge from a man you have  _ never _ met?”

Something flickered across the librarian’s eyes then. Something unnatural. When they spoke, there was a real fear there. It was not a fear of Tim. “I… I don’t know.”

“ _ Tim _ ,” Georgie said sharply. This time it was she who grabbed his wrist to pull him away. With a cheery, “sorry to bother you, thank you!” she dragged him up the winding stairs, as they were directed. 

Tim sank down to his haunches, huddled between two stacks of books on the history of fairies and humanity. “Something is really wrong here,” he grumbled. 

“Obviously,” Georgie said, flipping her way through a magical encyclopedia. “But I told you to be careful. Seduction isn’t careful. An interrogation isn’t careful.”

“I had it under control!” Tim insisted.

Georgie snapped the book shut. “You absolutely did not.”

“Hey, shut up, both of you,” Melanie piped up. She tossed a book down into Tim’s lap. “Check the page I bookmarked.”

Tim picked up the weathered and creaky old tome of fae lore and cracked it open to the spot Melanie had flagged. Despite having been open just moments before, the book still gave up a puff of dust when disturbed. “Not got a lot of fairies in Blackwood, do you?” Tim said.

“We’re a maritime culture. Bit preoccupied with the harpies and the sea serpents to concern ourselves with what the fae are up to,” Georgie said, tucking another book back into place.

Tim squinted at the yellowed and delicate old page. The typesetting was crooked and inking none too even, as though the printer had thrown the whole thing together in a bit of a rush. Or a subconscious fugue. Some words were hard to make out, some lines hard to follow. Furthermore, with age and wear, some sections were utterly corrupted. It struck Tim as appropriate, being a guide to fairies. The passage was on fair folk and their kin across the kingdoms. It spoke of the prevalence of banshees in Blackwood, and the merfolk along the shores. It told of the many reclusive bog spirits of Alveare. There was talk of the salamanders that dotted the cliffs of Pyrrha, and the sylphs who once dwelled with them until the warlike Pyrrhans drove them back to the In Between. Then, of course, there was Faege.

_ “One of course cannot speak on the Fae of the Kingdoms without c̶͉̅o̵̙͠n̶̞̍s̴̬̍.̶̦̄.̷̗͑.̴̧̍.̴͉̈́.̶̩̈́.̶͍͛.̶̥ ̷̘͝.̵̤̄.̵̛̞.̸̇ͅ ̸̻̆.̶͇̍.̶̡̈́g̶̩͆n̵̙̄i̵̥͆f̴̱̓.̶̤̎.̵̗͊.̸͉͛.̷̪̽.̷̹͋.̸̖̊ ̵͖͆ȍ̸̼f̸̘͊ the vast and verdant realm of Faege. It is said the veil is as thin there as the mountain air. The name of t̶̗͠h̸͉̉.̵̞̊ ̶̟͘.̸̜̇.̶̪̃.̵̝̓.̷͈̄i̷͎̽p̸̥̋a̴̭͌l̴̙̔.̷͈͐.̴̜̃.̷̨͋ ̵͉̀.̴̨.̵̲͠ ̴̝̉Ḟ̶̙.̵͔̉.̵̳̂.̶͕.̷̠͛ ̵̼͌f̸̨̒i̶͍͂n̷͈͌d̵̟͑.̶̩̌ ̶̕ͅ.̴̧̈.̷̊͜.̸̡̒ etymology ī̷̫n̴̤ ̴̜͋t̸͈̊.̷̡̌.̴̝̓ ̷̮̏O̴̻͛l̸̜̋.̵̺̿ ̶̯͊.̴̹͛.̶̧̑.̵͉̐g̶̻̐ų̴̈́ë̵̬́ meaning “magic” or “skilled with magic”, or otherwise “fated”, or even “cursed”. It was in .̴͔͝.̴͕͒.̶̺̏ ̶͇͒.̴̖̈́.̴̯͐.̴͓̆.̷̧̏ ̷͉͒7̶̻̈1̴̙̾.̷̱͑ ̶̞̿A̴̧͑F̸̡̅Q̸̬̃ ̷̡͝t̸̻̿h̴̼͛a̶̬͌t̶̬͊ Royal House Stoker sealed their allegiance with the fairies ẁ̴̨ĥ̸͙.̶͔͆.̸̢̐ ̴͓̍.̷̧̓.̵̺͑.̷͈͛.̷̯̐ ̷̖̋ǎ̷̤ị̴̕d̷̙̆.̶͖̐.̷̦̓ ̸̯̀.̶̪͗.̵̤ ̵̞̆s̴̞͆ṭ̶̑r̶̪.̵͇̑.̶̤͗.̷͔̌.̷͙̆.̵̥͒ ̷̞̔.̷̩̂.̶̣͘w̷̰n̷̤̒ ̶͓͛t̷̙͝.̶͎̿.̶͇͛ ̶͓̈L̷̼̔.̶̬̄.̶̫̓.̵͕͛ ̷͓̎.̷̬̍i̵̳͌n̶̯̐g̸̪̍.̴̫͗ ̶͓̄T̷̆͜h̷̥͌u̸͕̔.̶̘̉ ̸̝͗.̶̞.̴̜͝.̴̺̓ ̷̜͐.̴͙̄a̴̤̽è̵̼ ̴̮͊.̷͙.̷͔͘.̶̝͐.̶̠͊.̵̠̆ê̸̜s̸͓̾s̷̞̽ ̵̤͐.̴͕̆.̸̜͐d̷̮ ̴̛͎.̵̜̔.̴̫̏.̶̙̓ ̵̦͘P̸̙̎r̶̬̄.̴̩.̷̱͊.̸̬̂.̵̳̈́.̸̤͆.̶̘ ̸̬̍.̶̡͊.̶̩̎.̵̼͌k̴̲͠e̸̜r̷̳̈́ which may have much more to do with the prevalence of fairies in Faege than any weakness in the veil.” _

Frantically Tim flipped through the next few pages, but the text moved on to describe the various courts and kingdoms within the fairy cultures themselves. It was hard to tell if the headache came from the eye strain of struggling to read the corrupted text, or the information that was now settling heavy into his mind, forming a sediment there. “An allegiance,” he breathed, tapping the word on the page. “What goddamn allegiance? Why didn’t my mother ever tell me anything about this? Did  _ she _ know?”

“Didn’t you ever wonder why the fairies attacked your family?” Melanie inquired.

“I don’t know, the fae are capricious!” Tim said, throwing his arms up in the air. “I thought we probably insulted them by… planting the wrong type of flowers or spilling salt or something, and they decided we needed to pay for it in blood!” There was so much swimming inside of Tim’s being now, revelations and wounds, confusion about his family’s oaths and bonds, worry and resentment for his friends, and those nibbling little feelings at the edge of his consciousness that felt at once too large and too ridiculous to speak. The things he felt when he looked at Martin and stood in his defense. The things he perhaps felt for…

No. Not now. It was too much.

Tim wearily glanced up at where Georgie stood. “This library doesn’t let you borrow, does it?”

Georgie furrowed her brow. “Do libraries in Faege allow borrowing?”

Sighing, Tim tucked the old book back. He’d probably gotten the most he could from that ratty old text, at any rate.

They emerged into the midday sun, exhausted and little further along than they had been. The library bore precious little information on warlocks beyond the fact of their existence, and the advice for conflict with fairies did not extend beyond “don’t.” Tim paused in the shade of an oak tree and ran a hand back through his hair. “Now what?”

“I would say we should ask Jon what he knows,” Georgie said, “but I don’t know how much he would be able to tell us.”

Tim scoffed at that. “Yeah, and I’d hate to see what stunt he’d pull to get us to not take the risk.”

Any reply Georgie might have had was cut off as an arrow whizzed past her and struck the tree directly next to Tim’s head.

“What the  _ fuck? _ ” Tim spat. His heart leapt into his throat and he reached for the hilt of his blade. Had attempting research summoned the fairies to him? Had they tracked him down to finish off the last of his line? But if that were so, why would they use such a mundane weapon as a bow?

Melanie did not hesitate to draw a knife with each hand. “Did either of you see where that came from?”

“I’ll make them wish they hadn’t missed,” Tim growled.

“I don’t think they did,” said Georgie. She reached up beside Tim’s head and plucked the arrow from the tree. There was a note tied tight to its shaft.

Tim frowned and carefully tugged off the thread which bound the scrap of parchment. The message was short, and to the point:

_ If you wish to discuss the Mage Magnus, meet me at the tavern at sundown. _

***

Such was Green Arches’ pride in the written word that even the tavern which sat in the shadow of the inn was called the Rusty Quill. Not that much writing got done at such a place, boisterous and rowdy as it was. Though the tavern keeper was quite mild mannered and friendly, and he did his best to keep the peace, every once in a while the landlord swung by with a smile that looked like a threat, bought everyone another round, and left just as the chaos erupted again.

Tim, Georgie, and Melanie sat tucked into a booth. It was neither shadowy nor secluded, but there was something to being anonymous in a crowd. Why seek solitude for secrecy when the din can cover your tracks just as well.

Tim leaned in toward the others over the table, though he still had to raise his voice a bit to be heard. “How will we know when we see them, do you think?”

“I believe the idea is that they’ll know us,” Georgie replied.

“Yeah,” Melanie piped in, taking a swig of ale. “I mean just a few hours ago they knew an arrow straight at your head.”

On cue, a fourth person joined their party, settling wordlessly in at the table next to Tim. She was a woman with a contemplative gaze and a crimson scarf wound about her head and neck. Hanging over her chest was a medallion Tim recognized as marking a Journeyman of the Order of Scholars, such as Sasha was.

“I trust it was your arrow that found us?” he asked.

“It was,” the woman said. “Forgive the manner of delivery, I wasn’t sure it was safe to speak to you directly at the tower.”

“Yeah, firing an arrow at us, that’s much safer,” Melanie grumbled into her stein. 

The woman raised a brow, if barely. “Trust me, I do not miss.”

“Why do you want to talk to us?” Georgie asked, resting on her elbows at the table. “What do you know about the Mage Magnus?”

“Not as much as I wish I did,” said the woman. “And not near so much as they convinced me I did when I joined.”

Tim held up his hand to pause the conversation. “Who are you, exactly, before we give up our reasons?”

“I could ask you the same before I give you what I know,” the woman replied. “But fair is fair. My name is Basira.”

“Hang, on, like Knight Errant Ser Basira Hussain?” Melanie piped up, slamming her mug down.

“Melanie, please,” Georgie sighed.

“As in, former Queensguard Ser Basira, from the songs?” Melanie went on. There was a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. “Ser Basira who forswore her oath to seek her own truth?”

“It wasn’t as simple as that,” Basira said with a flattened, subdued intensity. A barkeep swung by to check in on orders, and Basira waved her off.

Tim sulked in his seat. He could really go for another drink about now. It had been quite the day.

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Georgie, placing a firm hand on her wife’s shoulder. “The truths behind the songs never are. So, we are Georgie and Melanie, two traveling bards, and this is…” She hesitated, and Tim could see the scales tipping in her mind between honesty and discretion.

Instead, Tim made the decision for her. “Prince Timothy of House Stoker, last of my line.”

This seemed to muster a bit of surprise from the otherwise composed and subdued Basira. “The Prince Regent of Faege?”

“Well, I damn well should be,” Tim said, pushing down the darkness he felt welling inside him, the anger and the grief. “Prince in Exile for now.”

Basira nodded slightly to him, and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. “My apologies for not bowing, but it feels like discretion is key.”

“I never cared about formalities like that anyway,” Tim said. “What I care about is honesty, and loyalty, and favor. Favors that maybe we can do for each other.”

“Mayhaps,” said Basira. “That depends. Tell me, why is it you seek the Mage Magnus?”

“We have some unfinished--” Georgie began.

Melanie and Tim, in perfect unison, interrupted her. “We want to kill him.”

Georgie sighed. “Well, yes.”

“I see,” Basira said. She took a sip of water and glanced around, but of course none in the raucous crowd paid their quiet gathering any mind. “Then I hope we can help each other, because I have been trying to sort out the truth about the Mage Magnus for the past couple of years. I know he has some hold, some sway over my Order that goes far beyond funding, far beyond influence. Something malicious, something foundational. Something magic.”

“Hang on,” Georgie piped up. “If he has control over the Order of Scholars, how do we know he doesn’t have control over you?”

“Because I know he has control,” Basira said plainly, “so I refuse it.”

Tim choked out a laugh. “Are you telling me you just, what,  _ reasoned _ your way out of a hex?”

“Yes,” Basira said plainly, shrugging. “It’s a valid strategy, depending on the hex, and the strength of your will. Listen, I will put this to you as straight as I can, considering the gaps in my knowledge, and the magic that is constantly attempting to force me to stop talking about it. He… I believe he… he’s using the Order to… funnel people to him. People he can… use.” Her voice peaked and strained as she pushed each word past her lips. “You… you want to… kill him? I… I want to… break… his hold… on my… Order.”

Every bit of Tim that had been longing and waiting for action, for a problem he could take on headlong, came alive inside him. The fire burned again, but now the anger was righteous and not bitter, fueled on the possibility of revenge, and of protecting those who had suffered. The way his family had suffered under the Fae. The way Jon suffered under Jonah Magnus’ cruelty. “So… do you know how to kill him?”

“Close. Maybe.” Basira took a deep breath to compose herself and draw on her inner strength. “I… may have narrowed down the location of his pact. And I need backup. To break it.”


	12. XII: Long Live the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe I've gotten several new readers lately due to some beautiful fanart by my buddy @cary-atherton-art on Tumblr! Welcome everyone. Go check out her art blog if you haven't yet.
> 
> Also a belated shoutout to my new beta reader, Kathryn, light of my life, absolute treasure, who's been helping me out the last few chapters and going forward. Thank you! If you want some MarTim fluff after... what I'm about to do to you... go read their fic "Birthday Drinks and Hijinks" for a much softer, kinder time.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

By now Martin would have thought the trek from the Blackwood to the capitol would’ve gotten easier, or at least comfortingly familiar. Now he just felt exhausted and weary. He kept shifting the sack with the spider head from shoulder to shoulder but it never sat right. Maybe it was the dread of facing Peter once more, unsure of what he’d do. There was no way he could openly attack him in the middle of court, right? But where could he be safe? How could he know Peter wouldn’t creep into his quarters at night and finish him off? Even if he didn’t, he would surely find some new, more dangerous task to send him off on. It was an endless cycle, impossible to ascend from, and Martin knew he would have to find a more decisive way to deal with it beyond simply keeping his head above water, because neither of them could keep this up forever.

Maybe still it was the worry he had for Jon, and for Tim, left far behind him. Tim had such rage in him, burned by betrayal and sudden loss. Martin wished he knew how to support him better, how to help him see the danger in his anger. But he understood too Tim’s anger at Jon. If he was honest, Martin was a little angry too. Jon was so unwilling to be helped. Why? Someday, Martin swore he would find a way to help them both.

Coming up over the crest of a hill, Martin now stood looking down on the coast and Heartwood, the capitol, his home. It was evening, and he could see the glimmer of lanterns in the streets and out on the docks at port. The lighthouse at the mouth of the bay shone bright, and somewhere amid the glitter and shadow Martin could make out the shapes of people and horses passing in the twilight, messenger eagles taking flight, little boats on the water cutting paths around larger ships like schools of fish making way for whales.

Home was a fraught thing for Martin and always had been. Home was not a place of welcome, his mother and Peter had both made sure of that. But it was still the place that had made him, molded and shaped him. Home was also where his people lived, the people to whom he swore himself by blood and oath and duty. The people he had to protect from Peter.

Out on the bay sat Peter’s ship, too, eternally docked now that Peter sat on the throne. Martin knew his stepfather would much rather be on the sea, and he didn’t know why he wouldn’t just go, why he clung so hard to his landlocked role. Sometimes Peter would just go sit out on the bow of his ship and leave Martin a few merciful hours alone in the castle, but from the darkness pooled about it, Martin was sure it was vacant now.

There was a bustling at the town gate, and people were beginning to file out by torchlight. Martin hefted a sigh. He was profoundly tired of the revelers who came to celebrate his victories and the lie of his courage. Especially now, especially when it was Jon who had given up so much to spare the people of this terror. Jon who had sacrificed and suffered. It was he who deserved to be lauded as a hero, and someday Martin hoped he could show them just--

No, that wasn’t cheering.

Martin faltered, halfway down the slope, as the shouts of the crowd advanced on him. He took a step back, but where was there to retreat to when you can already see the flood rushing in to swallow you?

He was starting to pick out words. “Traitor.” “Liar.” “Monster.”

The ever-present fog of Blackwood gathered around Martin’s shoulders and he felt cold.

A pair of knights on horseback rode out in advance of the mob. Martin recognized them by the blue of their cloaks as Kingsguard. The sight of them used to reassure him, but instead he stood frozen between their steeds and gazes.

One unfurled a scroll and cleared his throat sharply. “Prince Martin of the Royal House of Blackwood, by decree of King Regent Peter of House Lukas you are hereby under arrest on charges of treason and heresy.”

Martin felt all his insides sinking. The treason he should’ve expected, but heresy? “On what grounds?” he demanded in the strongest voice he could muster, which still caught a bit in his throat on the way out.

“On grounds of deceiving the king, of deceiving the people in the name of the king, of forming an allegiance with an enemy creature, and of unholy union with an inhuman beast.”

In mounting disbelief Martin mouthed the words ‘unholy union’ but could not bring himself to properly respond. What on earth did they think had happened between him and Jon? If he was honest with himself, were they even really that far from the truth? Perhaps not anything so salacious, but Martin knew that Jon was more than a friend by now. And he was a friend too, at that. And he was a person.

But they didn’t know that. They didn’t understand. How could they?

It was then that the mob parted once more. This time it was Peter himself who rode forth, looking down on Martin with icy disdain. “Word came this morning from the borderlands at the Blackwood,” he said. “Not only does the Beast of Eyes yet live, you were heard pronouncing your love to the monster just after it had fed on one of our own subjects. I was right to keep the crown from you as long as I have, you have only proven that you cannot and will never be accountable to the people.”

“But I… it’s not…” Martin tried to say, but he could not form a sentence that was not a lie. Because wasn’t that the honest truth of it? He said he’d killed the Beast of Eyes, and he lied. And he did love him, utterly, inescapably. He’d fallen for him the way one falls for gravity. The way Martin wanted to fall to his knees now.

Peter brought his horse around and turned his back on Martin. “Take him to the dungeons at the castle keep to await his sentence.” Though he could not see his face, Martin swore he could hear the hint of a smile in Peter’s voice, beneath the air of disappointment.

The Kingsguard came in close to fasten the manacles and chains about Martin’s wrists. He did not run and he did not fight. Where would he go? What could he do? Peter had always wanted him dead, it was true. But now even the people had turned against him, and he knew not what he could say that would change their minds. Peter had them completely in his hands.

Sobbing, Martin staggered behind the knights and struggled to keep up with their horses as he was dragged through the crowds both out of the city and within. They jeered at him as he passed, calling him betrayer and deceiver and pervert and some much more strongly worded accusations that he would never dream of repeating even in his own mind. The assembled people pelted him with mud and fish and spoiled produce as he passed. He did his best to close his eyes and keep his head low to shield his face from the worst of it. Someone even managed to pepper him with cinders, and Martin yelped as his cheek was burned by the blow. 

Martin had only ever seen the dungeons from the outside. He remembered being very small, and one of the few times his mother ever picked him up was to hoist him high enough to see the sorry souls behind those bars and tell him, “this is where the bad people go.” Martin remembered feeling very sorry for them, and wondered what anyone could do that would ever be bad enough for how hungry and dirty and hurt those people had looked. Later that same day, his mother had given him the switch for putting bread between the bars, something she did far more often than carrying him.

Now he was alone down here. Martin didn’t know why he was alone. Martin knew Peter had been ordering arrests, so why was he alone? Martin stumbled when he was shoved in, and the Kingsguard departed without removing the manacles from his wrists. He knelt down in the dirt and filth, too stunned and weary to stand. His cheek stung badly where the salt in his tears tracked across his burn.

“Such a shame we’ll have to call the coronation off.” Peter’s voice echoed through the halls of the dungeon.

Martin laughed bitterly, leaning against the gnarled, weathered cold iron of the cell door. “Come to gloat, have you? Why bother, you’ve already won.”

“I haven’t yet, not really,” Peter said, his voice low. He always managed to sound so cheerful, even when he was threatening, a joviality to his wickedness. But not now. Now his voice cut deep, and it twisted between Martin’s ribs. “I’ll be dealing with you in short order, yes. But then there’s everyone else.”

Everyone else. In spite of the humiliation and hostility, Martin was flooded with fear. He pressed himself desperately up against the bars, but he could not see Peter, only the shadow he cast. “My people. What are you going to do to my people.”

“It’s not what I’m going to do, young Martin,” Peter said. “It is what you have already done. You should have killed me when you had the chance, you know. You had so many chances. But you were too civil, too peaceful, and you wanted to do it all by the rules. But I make the rules, Martin. I am the king. And you were never going to win by my rules, simple boy.”

Martin sobbed, trembling. He coiled one hand tight around the bar, felt the rust digging into his skin. “Please,” he said. He rested his head against the cell door in defeat. “Please. Please.” The begging fell flat on the floor between him and Peter.

“You know,” said Peter, stepping just barely into the light. That cheerfulness bounced back into his voice. “The only thing that seems to get people quite as excited as a coronation is an execution. I believe a public beheading is traditional, but I think perhaps the spectacle of an execution by fire might be quite fun for everyone! It works for the Pyrrhans. To burn a prince at the stake… not common, but not unheard of. Especially with crimes as unclean as yours.”

“He’s not a monster!” Martin spat. It was all he could think to say.

“And with that,” Peter said, “you have lit your own pyre. Good night, little prince, sleep well. It is the last sleep you will know, so make the most of it. Pray to any power you might believe in if you think it will help you. I know I’ll be praying to mine.” He stalked off up the stairs, leaving Martin alone in the darkness. 

Fears echoed in Martin’s head like Peter’s retreating footsteps. He didn’t want to die. He especially didn’t want to die by fire. The scald of the cinders still hurt so keenly, he could hardly bear to imagine the agony of a proper flame. But it was more than that, so much more than him. It was all that he loved.

If Jon had given himself over to so much suffering to save Martin, what was he going to do if he couldn’t save him this time?

What was Tim going to do left without allies in a hostile foreign land? Did Peter know about him? What would he do to him if he knew?

What was going to become of Georgie, and Melanie, and all of Martin’s people when Peter did whatever it was he intended to do, whatever he had stolen this throne for?

Still huddled against the door, Martin stared at the single torch which lit the entire area, or tried its best to. He watched the little moths that danced around it, watched one disappear into the flame, never to return.

***

For quite some time now, Peter had been preparing for Plan B. It wasn’t ideal, he would much rather have gone with Plan A. Plan A had a certain poignancy to it, and it would have pleased his demonic master greatly. But Plan B would have to do.

Peter stalked up the stairs. Things were in motion now that he’d been preparing for for years. While he couldn’t choose the hand he’d been dealt, he had to work with it and act on it swiftly. The people were outraged. He could use this. 

“Your grace?” a voice piped up. One of the castle staff was bent low to greet him as he ascended from the dungeons.

One of the worst things about being king is that no matter how hard he tried to narrow it down, there were always so many people around. So many attendants, advisors, servants, and guards. So many pitiful little people cloying for his favor or his aid. For so long he had suffered their presence. Too long. Not much longer now. “Rise, good man, and speak freely. This is a difficult time for us all.”

“Indeed,” the man agreed. He wrung his hands, his face strained with worry. “May I truly speak my piece, your majesty?”

He did wish people would just get over with it instead of dancing around such formalities so that the conversation could be over. Admittedly, sometimes he did not wait for that. “Yes, of course, now is a time for honesty, as we’ve had far too much dishonesty in this kingdom.”

“That is just the thing, your majesty,” the man put forth. “I admire your commitment to justice, but I have known the prince nearly his whole life, and it does not seem to me he would knowingly, willingly lie to the people without purpose. He has always been a good lad, and loyal. He has always treated us with kindness. I do not doubt, milord, that what you say is true, that the Beast still lives. But if he still lives, I can only believe our prince made that choice with mercy and justice. Please, I beg of you to consider it in your sentencing.” He bowed his head once again in reverence and plea.

Peter set his jaw and sighed. He stepped up to the man and gestured for him to lift his head. Looking him up and down, Peter said, “You are Tom, are you not? One of our castle scribes. You used to read to Martin as a boy, did you not?”

“I did, your grace,” said Tom.

Peter nodded. “Yes, you do know him well. Being that this is a time for honesty, and you have been honest with me, I shall be honest with you in turn. I don’t care about the prince’s innocence, or his reasons. In fact, I do not care about the lie either, and I’ve been sure of his lie for quite some time, though I hadn’t the proof until now.” Smiling, Peter clapped a hand down on his servant’s shoulder. “And I do not care about you, either.”

Tom’s eyes widened, just a bit. “Y-your majesty?”

“Be silent now,” Peter sighed, with a softness in his voice that carried the quiet, terrible power of his master. He pushed, not with his hand or with his body, but with his mind and spirit. Under the force of his will, the scribe Tom dissipated into a fine mist. He didn’t even have a chance to scream, and Peter loved it when they didn’t scream. So much more peaceful that way. What was once Tom dispersed, floating out the cracks in the nearby windows to join the fog that covered Blackwood.

A fog that had grown ever thicker the longer Peter remained in power.

With each person he sacrificed to that eternal silence, he honored his patron and sealed his power just a little longer. But to give but one person at a time was to whittle away at a mountain with a handaxe. If he was to guarantee himself any meaningful amount of peace, he would need a much larger gesture.

Say, a kingdom.

Sacrifice is a tricky thing at a grand scale. It’s a hard thing to go through an entire people one by one and steal them away from their lives. Even with as quiet and subtle a manner of sacrifice as Peter employed, eventually people are probably going to figure you out. Not everyone could be so lucky as his old friend the Mage Magnus, to have the good fortune to have a multinational order funneling sacrifices to you indirectly. Some people still had to do their own legwork. At least Jonah’s little familiar had provided a convenient excuse for the amount of disappearances so far, but it wasn’t going to last forever. 

Yes, it was painstaking and time consuming and near impossible to sacrifice that many people one by one. If, however, one were to unify a people under a common sentiment, symbolically one could treat them as a single being with a single mind and a single heart.

Originally Peter had hoped to unite the nation in mourning, in grief over a kind and naive prince, much beloved, stolen violently from them by an attack. In his first attempt he figured any outcome was a win. Either Martin would fall in combat with the beast and set his plan in motion, or against all odds he would win, and Peter could lord it over Jonah that he’d had his favorite pet killed. What Peter hadn’t counted on was for Martin, a shy and retiring boy who’d always struggled to make friends, to bond with the creature so quickly. Nor was he entirely sure how Martin had continued to survive the encounters he pitted him against. Perhaps Jonah’s familiar had something to do with it. Maybe this was Jonah’s idea of getting back at him for his little stunt, by having his servant help foil his plans.

No matter, because now he had something else to work with. A kingdom dissolved in mourning would’ve had a poetic beauty. But a kingdom brought to a boiling point of outrage, only to be snuffed out at the moment of the prince’s execution? That would do just as well.

Oh, and wouldn’t it sour Jonah that Peter had beaten him to it? Peter knew Jonah had his sights set on sacrificing the people of Blackwood for centuries, now that his last mass sacrifice was finally starting to wear off in effectiveness. But now it was finally Peter’s turn to buy himself a millennium of immortality. When the people of Blackwood were given over to his demonic master, Peter could finally go off on the ocean, with but a skeleton crew of familiars bound to his service, and he could stay out there as long as he liked with no need to return to land for food nor drink nor any other human need. Only the peace of the sea. Only solitude.

But first, he had some loose ends to tie up.

A hard night’s ride brought Peter out to the edge of the Blackwood. It was a strenuous and wretched evening, but at least his latest sacrifice gave him the strength he needed not to sleep. By dawn he came to that shore of wood and foliage, and a certain cabin perched beside.

The Blackwood is ever wild and ever hungry, and those who live astride it know that its denizens frequently venture forth to feed. The wolves and foxes prey on the livestock. The monsters prey on the farmers. As such, there is a lucrative trade in the borderlands for hunting, both to provide wild meat and pelts and bone, as well as to pick off troublesome predators. Particularly adventurous sorts make their living this way, and most hunters command a certain amount of respect. There was one huntswoman, however, who was feared as much as the monsters she tangled with. The people called on her only when the threat was too great for any other hunter to dare face. She never asked for payment, it was only the thrill of the hunt she wanted in exchanged. So feared was she that none in the wood dared speak her true name, as though she were some fae, so they called her only “Daisy” for the prominent scar she bore.

Peter rode his horse up to the edge of her property and tethered his steed to her fence. Even now, at the crack of dawn, she was sat outside her cabin, notching the shafts of fresh arrows to fit them with feathers. Harpy feathers, from the look of it. Likely prizes from one of her hunts.

When Peter approached, Daisy did not bow, did not so much as even rise from her seat to greet him. “What do you want?” she asked, ticking another notch into wood with her knife.

“I am the king of this land, and I have come to request your service,” Peter said, smiling. Honestly her refusal to bend to pleasantry was refreshing. They could just get to the point.

Daisy still didn’t rise, but at least now she glanced up from her work. “Only one kind of service folks want from me. You need something dead, oh your mighty highness? Something your faithful knights and soldiers aren’t good enough to finish for you?”

“Only the most skilled of hunters could achieve what I require,” said Peter. He clasped his hands together delightedly. “You may have heard the news. The Beast of Eyes still lives.”

With that, Daisy grinned a hungry grin, and all the muscles in her body coiled up in anticipation. “Not for much longer. You have my word.”


	13. XIII: Mirror, Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here we are, the *approximate* halfway point of the story. This is already the longest fic I've ever written, and much more to come.
> 
> Apologies for the lateness this week and thank you for your patience. I usually try to get it up by Sunday/Monday but I have been... so tired. Camp NaNo is starting soon and I'm hoping to alternate writing days between this and my original work, so hopefully that'll help me keep up the pace. Good luck if anyone else will be participating.
> 
> And to the person who commented, an hour before this posting, "oh, I'm all caught up!" ... :eye_emoji:

Long, long ago, Gerry could remember, if vaguely, that years seemed to pass so slowly when he was a child. Not that he could remember any of the details. Only time, and that it had passed. Now, every day, every week, every year was just a flicker in his consciousness and there was a time when he thought the blur of it all might finally take his mind from him. 

Then there was Jon.

Jon was his grounding, his center. Jon was the only person he could talk to, especially since Jonah had abandoned him to the loft to be forgotten. After all, Jonah had grown too powerful to need Gerry anymore. 

When Jon came into Gerry’s life, it pulled all the parts of him that had scattered and dissipated back together into a whole, made him his true self again. Here was a man, trapped as he was, misled and broken, and now not only was Gerry not alone, he had a purpose. That purpose was to make sure that Jon did not suffer alone as he had all these years. To make sure that Jon retained as much stability as he could.

So many others had come before Jon, but none of them were in a fit state to talk to by the time Jonah was through with them. As Jon’s power grew, he began to get a sense of what had happened to his predecessors because he Knew, and he could sense them there. Sometimes he would bring one of Jonah’s tools up to the loft and tearfully ask Gerry, “Who was this?” 

A few of them Gerry was sure about. The ficus in the study was poor Elias Bouchard. There was a tome that Jonah took notes in somewhere which once had been James Wright. An ever-burning candle in Jonah’s quarters had been Richard something-or-other. He hadn’t lasted long. Others still had been here so long, had been transformed so long ago, that Gerry recalled not their names; nor, he suspected, did they recall their own. But all were aware, and all were suffering, and the suffering was the point. Suffering, and witnessing it, was what Jonah’s master thrived on. 

Only Jonah’s favorites were ever volunteered forth as possible familiars. All before Jon had been rejected by the demon, the Ceaseless Watcher. The most recent had been the architect Robert Smirke, who had refortified the crumbling old Mage’s Tower, for whom Jonah had quite an unfortunate fondness. A fondness, regrettably, not shared by his master. It actually shocked Gerry when the spell worked on Jon, who he had expected to watch die from afar.

Now Gerry had no intention of watching Jon die from afar.

If only he actually had any real means to protect him. 

Jon, his grounding. Jon, his center. Jon, the love of his life. For what was Gerry meant to do but to love him, the only friend he had, the only one he had to care for and who cared for him in turn. Jon, who was sharp of tongue and sharp of wit, if sometimes troublingly easily misled. Jon, who, despite everything, still cared about what was right after all this time, still tried to minimize the harm he was forced to do to survive. Sometimes, insofar as Gerry still could, he dreamed of holding Jon, of carrying him far away from here.

Some things just weren’t meant to be.

What he could do was listen to him, advise him, try to shield him from his own bad decisions.

Yet, try as he might.

There was a flicker of movement at the arrowslit window in the loft. Gerry brought himself into view, waiting impatiently as the moth flew in through the narrow window and, in the blink of an eye, became Jon, who landed square on his feet by the haypile which was his only bed. He was breathless and shaken, his expression strained. “Don’t,” he spat, the instant he had a mouth with which to say it.

“Oh good, you’ve lectured yourself and saved me the trouble then?” Gerry said, leaning against his frame.

Jon leaned against the wall beside him. Gerry hated when he did this, it was hard to see him with his own eyes and he was forced to see him from his Other senses. “I’m… not proud of myself this time. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

Gerry sighed. “Of course you didn’t. You never could just leave well enough alone, could you?”

At that Jon was silent, arms crossed, staring bitterly at the floor.

“Do you know why I tell you off about putting yourself at risk?” Gerry asked. “Every time?”

Jon scoffed, rubbing at his upper arm as though sore. “Because you don’t want to be alone. Which I can respect.”

“No, you damn idiot,” Gerry said, nearly laughing, a strained and fragile thing. “I mean, that’s part of it. I hate being alone, it’s terrifying, it’s crushing, but I was alone long enough not to care if it weren’t for the fact that I care for you! When you hurt I can feel it, and not just because I can see everything! I feel your pain in my bones, Jon. As much as I still have bones.”

Stirring beside him, Jon sidestepped back into his field of view. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’d say don’t be sorry, be careful, but I know that’s too much to ask now, isn’t it?” Gerry said. He pressed his hand against the glass for want of reaching through it. “This is so much bigger than little favors and principles.” 

Jon stared at the floor and took a deep breath. “It… yes, it is.”

“I want to hear you say it, Jon.” Gerry said, rapping ever so lightly on the glass to wake Jon up.

His face scrunched in frustration, Jon said, “Why? You already know.”

“I don’t need to hear it,” said Gerry. “But I think you need to hear it.”

When Jon finally lifted his head to look to Gerry, his eyes were rimmed with tears. “I love Martin,” he said. “I love him, and I need him to be safe.”

There was an emotion in Gerry so big he could never hope to carry it. It was warm and tender, ever so glad for him. It was also squeezing and crushing the life out of him, one of the most exquisite agonies he had ever known. It was ecstasy and pain, hope and fear, love and loss. “I know,” he whispered. ‘And I love you,’ he wanted to say, but he did not. Could not. Not now. “And that’s why, against every instinct in my being, I have to tell you what I’m going to tell you now.”

Jon stared at him, wide eyed and wiping clumsily at his tears, careful of his claws. “What is it?”

Gerry looked away, felt his stomach twist as he forced the words out. “Your Martin is in terrible danger. The warlock king has arrested him, plans to execute him.”

In his terror, Jon’s wings instinctively flared wide. “ _ What? _ ”

“If you make haste,” Gerry went on, “you might yet beat the usurper king back, but be wary of the hunter he has sent after you.”

Trembling, Jon nodded. “I… I have to go. I have to go now. Thank you, Gerry, thank you for telling me.”

Some part of Gerry still wished he hadn’t said a word, that he’d let the whole thing play out on his own. But he knew the terrible danger Blackwood was in, a terrible fate he never wanted to see befall another kingdom. He also knew the love Jon bore in his heart. But unlike Gerry, Jon was not helpless but to watch. He could move, he could act. For every time Gerry wished he could swoop in and protect Jon from the horrors that followed him, Jon could act now for Martin. 

Jon fumbled around briefly in his haypile. From beneath he retrieved the napkin he had kept from Martin’s picnic. The corner was embroidered with a B and the crest of Martin’s house. This he tucked into his tunic, under his bindings, close to his heart. “I won’t let him die. I won’t let his kingdom fall.”

“I know you won’t,” Gerry said miserably, knowing that Jon would ensure this at any cost. He couldn’t trust Jon not to risk himself. But from all he’d seen, he hoped he could trust Martin not to allow it. Martin would love and care for Jon for him. “Please be safe. As safe as you can.”

“As safe as I can,” Jon agreed, and it was a cold and shallow promise he made as he scurried to the window again, shifting forms and fluttering out into the night. He could make impressive speed in flight, Gerry knew, in spite of his frail and tiny form, especially given the strength he’d gained from having recently fed. 

Gerry watched him go, and was glad to see no more trace of him by the time Jonah threw open the door.

“Where is he, Gerry?” Jonah asked, with nary a trace of that faux-friendly lilt in his voice. It seemed like it should be threatening, but Gerry was too tired and had been here too long.

“Why Master Jonah, whatever do you mean?” Gerry said, smirking and sitting himself down at center-frame.

Jonah marched straight up to the mirror. He pressed his hands to either side of its frame and leaned in close. “Let’s not play games, shall we?” he drawled. “I already know. And you know that I know. I simply wanted to give you one last chance to be honest with me, to make up for your  _ many _ deceptions.”

“Oh, you want to talk about deception?” Gerry growled. He sprung to his feet, marched up, and slammed his fist into the glass directly in front of Jonah’s face. Jonah didn’t even flinch, of course, but Gerry could not contain all the coiled springs inside of him that wanted to release and lash out. “What about all the lies you told to me? All the lies you told to Jon?”

Feigning hurt, Jonah tucked a smirk away behind a pout. “Oh, but I have never gone back on my promises,” he said. “I promised to relieve you and your kingdom of your wretched mother, and I did. I promised Jon knowledge, and now he has all the knowledge he could ever want and more. I delivered on all that was asked of me. Now, in turn, you plot up here against me, you get my precious familiar all tangled up in Peter’s little pet project. At first I was hoping your counsel and your company would keep him well out of it, but now…” Jonah sighed and leaned back. “Have you any idea how many tries it took me to successfully craft a familiar to feed my master with its suffering?”

“Yes,” Gerry hissed, “I was there.” His blood boiled, insofar as he still had blood or could feel heat. How dare Jonah throw his mother and his kingdom in his face like that. But what could he do?

Jonah made a big show of leaning up against the green door in hurt and despair, one hand caressing a wrought iron wall sconce. The candles were never lit, for Jon had fairly sharp night vision, and Gerry could see everything, whether he wanted to or not. “You’ve betrayed me, Gerry. You work to turn my most treasured pet against me.”

“No, you turned him against you,” Gerry muttered. “I just reminded him that, no matter what you might lead him to believe, he still has a choice.” Despite what, in fact, Gerry had led him to believe, and what he realized with shame he’d been complicit in all these years. All that time he thought he was protecting Jon, he was only pressing him to bend to Jonah’s will. No more.

“Then perhaps,” Jonah said, his expression going stoic and cold once more, “I should limit his options.” In his right hand he gripped that wall sconce tight. Then he wrenched it free from the old and crumbling stone wall. With one big, broad swing he struck out with it, right into the glass of Gerry’s mirror.

Gerry had, for as long as he could now clearly remember, existed between two worlds, though not fully in either of them. He walked back and forth across the border between the material world and the In Between, the world of magic itself, dangled in this limbo. He could never quite step far enough back into the In Between to escape into it and try to come out elsewhere, and he could never step far enough into the material world to interact with anything or indeed to feel anything. Until now. Because he felt that blow, he felt it square in his chest. He felt the wind he no longer need breathe knocked out of him, and he staggered back from his mirror, feeling wounds he could not see tearing across his being.

No longer could Gerry see. He could not see Jon traveling through the world anymore. Could not see the people Jon cared for. Could not see the Blackwood nor No Man’s Land, could not see the Tower nor Jonah. Any effort to step forward into his mirror and see more clearly brought him only agony, the cutting jags of a dozen shards of glass digging into him. When he cried out, it came out as a terrible sound, warped and echoing and indistinguishable as a human voice; it was more like the creaking of ice underfoot in the winter, strained and shaking. 

With the magic that still flowed through him, Gerry was still vaguely aware of some things, but nothing was certain and nothing was clear, and he could not know where Jon was and if he was safe. He only knew that he still lived.

“Comfortable in there?” he heard Jonah’s voice echoing around him. “Don’t strain yourself now. The harder you try to speak or see, the more you will hurt yourself.”

Trapped within himself and this tiny pocket dimension, Gerry huddled and made himself small, shaking at the core of himself.

“It could be worse, you know,” said Jonah. “I could break you more. I could smash that mirror to dust, scatter it to the winds, and do you know? You would still be alive, you would be aware of every moment, you would feel yourself spread thin and you could do nothing. It is only out of gratitude for your years of faithful service that I do you the favor of not completely destroying you know.”

Gerry sobbed, struggled to get a sense of where Jon was. Though he could not bleed, he swore he felt his blood running.

“Now, I know you’re still aware in there, and Jon will know it too,” Jonah said. His voice was so loud, so terribly loud. Had it always been this loud? Or was it rending Gerry from his other senses that made it so? Gerry covered his ears but it made no difference. Jonah went on, “Of course, we all know what’s become of the other inanimate objects in this house over time. The ones that cannot communicate, cannot reach out. Jon will get to sit helplessly by and Know that you are losing yourself, bit by bit, trapped in there. Know that you did this to him.”

Gerry wished that he could apologize. He wished that he could do anything at all.

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Jonah, his voice growing more distant, “I have a bit of meddling to do. I shan’t have Peter beat me to the punch in Blackwood. If he gets to successfully pull off his sacrifice before I get the chance, I’ll never hear the end of it for the next century. Good night, sweet dreams!”

Alone in his mirror prison, in his tiny dimension, Gerry could do nothing but wait. Wait, and hope, and brace himself for the horror of Jon coming back to find him this way, or the horror of him never coming back again.


	14. XIV: As Old As Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for missing a week, everyone, I haven't been feeling very well. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Was lovely to see new comments coming in despite the delay though. Thanks always for leaving a comment! I love all of you.

History forgets a great many things, when none are left to remember them. Entire cultures have been swallowed up by seas, unmourned by the world outside of them. But a person, a people need not be isolated to be forgotten. Someone just needs to put in a great effort to erase them.

There once was a great kingdom whose name is long lost. It sat perched on the edge of the Blackwood, a land of bogs and barrens, of gnarled trees over grey and dry prairies. Foxes scurried through the brush and the sky sometimes went black with crows and ravens, some of whom carried letters for the people who lived there. The villages and towns were all semi-nomadic, rotating their fields and pastures around the difficult soil. But the capitol stood firm, the castle towers watching over all.

It was here that Prince Gerard of House Keay made his home.

The life of the prince of this land was a quiet and lonely one. Gerry spent a lot of time in the castle’s rookery, chatting with the birds who, despite the fact that they only parroted what they heard, still made much better conversation than most people in the castle.

Of course, Gerry was not alone there, much as he might’ve wished otherwise. There was also his mother, the queen. Mad Queen Mary many called her, though it was a shortsighted thing to attribute her actions to madness. Perhaps it was the vain hope that a lucid person could not be so cruel. Some others simply called her the Murderer Queen, straightforward and to the point. Queen Mary was quick to execute anyone for the smallest slight, or even because she was bored. It gave her great pleasure to watch the suffering of others. The castle’s central-most tower, nearly windowless and imposing, was naught but a torture chamber for her favorite victims. All lived in fear of the whims of Queen Mary.

Even Gerry.

Gerry knew not what became of his father, the king, and dare not ask. He had come from a land called Blackwood, named for the dense and dangerous forest that separated the kingdoms. Sometimes Gerry dreamed of going there. Sometimes he wished he weren’t such a coward that he dare not risk his mother’s ire by fleeing. Someday he would regret not taking the chance.

It wasn’t that she had ever been kind; on the contrary, Gerry had only ever known his mother to be cruel and careless. However, over the years it seemed to him that her malice only grew, and with it grew her power. In fact, there was a sinking feeling in the pit of Gerry’s gut that his mother had sold her soul away to become a Warlock. How else could he hope to explain the way victims would fall right into her arms like flies into a pitcher plant? How else, except but by the grace of some terrible power? He couldn’t say what power, or why, or when, but he was fairly certain he knew how.

Queen Mary was the shame and terror of this lost kingdom. Its pride and virtue, however, was its Library. In fact, the Library was the first public library in all of the kingdoms, and the largest library by far. It promised knowledge to all who sought it, and the preservation of all knowledge that fell into its hands. Indiscriminately. To that end, Head Librarian Jurgen Leitner had founded the Order of Scholars to travel the kingdoms in search of more tomes to add to the library’s collection. The Order were knights who wielded words and not blades, and who swore to no crown. The regents of all the realms allowed it for they needed the information the Order provided as much as anyone else. This pleased Leitner greatly, for as the years passed his insatiable desire for more tomes only grew. It grew so far that he extended a library outpost to each kingdom and even to the heart of the Blackwood itself, to attempt to collect information from the monsters and witches and warlocks there.

Information that Gerry wasn’t so sure should be in anyone’s hands, least of all his mother.

Then came the final straw.

Of all the things Gerry had forgotten over the centuries, of all the pieces of his past and identity he had lost, this he still remembered crystal clear. He wished so dearly he could lose it with the rest. But he remembered so vividly the silence in the castle, the echoes of his footsteps. And he remembered his mother standing amongst the stripped skins of her castle servants and advisors, all hanging up to dry in the towers. “What need have I for servants now, my Gerard?” she said. “I have seen to it we will be provided for.”

Shaken and appalled, Gerry marched on the Library, seeking… what, he wasn’t sure at first. But he was sure this was the heart of everything that had gone wrong. Here he would find either answers or revenge. A librarian met him there on the steps, bowed in greeting, but saw the look on his face, and spoke, “My prince, what is it I might help you with?”

“I may be beyond helping,” said Gerry, staring up at the great doors of the Grand Library.

Rising up, the librarian said, “I am but an apprentice librarian, but perhaps my master can be of service. He…” The librarian glanced about to see if anyone was listening, then whispered, “He is leading a resistance. Against the head librarian.” 

A resistance. Then perhaps he was not the only one aware of how bad things had gotten. He nodded to the apprentice and agreed to meet his master.

Deep in the heart of the library was the office of master librarian Jonah Magnus. He sat at his desk by candlelight, hands neatly folded, watching the door as if expecting him. “Thank you, Albrecht,” he said, waving off his assistant. “You may leave us.”

Dutifully, the assistant shut the door behind him, leaving Gerry and Jonah alone in the room.

“What has the head librarian done,” Gerry asked, his tone at once demanding and weary.

Jonah rose to his feet to bow to his prince. “It is not what he has done,” he said, “but rather what he, through his inaction, has allowed to happen. My prince, I am sorry that it has come this far. I have been working, diligently, to stop it.” He rounded the table then and met Gerry face to face. Gerry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being scrutinized, picked apart under his eyes, but it was hard to tell the sensation apart from the miasma of paranoia which followed him.

“My mother--” Gerry started.

“I know,” said Jonah, raising a hand to quiet him. “I am well aware of the grimoires she has accessed. I can only assume she has begun the dark work of creating a pact with a demon.”

“I honestly thought she had already,” Gerry said with a weak laugh. He collapsed into a chair beside Jonah’s desk.

Jonah stood over his left shoulder and laid a reassuring hand there. “She may have been in contact before, but a pact is always sealed with a dark and symbolic act, manifest in an object. You must understand, I have been working hard against my master’s mistakes. Head Librarian Leitner has always believed that all knowledge warrants preservation, which I agree with. However, he has also carelessly believed that all knowledge should be made available to anyone, which is perhaps not so. Your mother, or what remains of her following her pact, is living proof. My colleagues in most of the branch libraries have quietly, successfully wrested control from Leitner, but here he regrettably remains in power, and I therefore could not protect your mother from herself, nor my countrymen from her.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” Gerry said, miserably.

“I think you do. You simply don’t want to admit it.”

Of course, Jonah was right. Jonah looked across the desk, where a mirror hung on the wall. He saw his own exhausted, weary face reflected back over him, and Jonah watching over him. He closed his eyes against his own ragged visage, unable to bear the sight of himself. From his hip he drew his shortsword, and he laid it down on the desk before him. “Mr. Magnus,” he said, “we strike tonight and take what must be ours for the good of our country and the world. If you strike down Leitner for his crimes, I will fell my mother as well.” He rose to his feet, turned and met Jonah face to face. “Will you? Can you?”

With sword in hand there was a solemn confidence that bloomed in Jonah’s countenance. “I will do what must be done for the sake of the one to whom I swear my life.” When he bowed to Gerry, sword point planted in the floorboards, Gerry felt the fire of revolution alight in his heart. No more of his mother’s cruelty. No more recklessly filling the world with vile and hateful knowledge. No more. Things were going to change, and they would change tonight. And this humble librarian would be the first of Gerry’s trusted advisors. After they did what had to be done.

The dark of night was following, a chorus of Raven’s welcoming the moon, as Gerry marched on the castle. His sword surrendered, he had now but a dagger to his name. It was in that dagger he put his full trust. Up in the torture tower, in the tiny arrowslit that was its only window, Gerry could see a light flickering. The tower was only lit when someone was at work there, and being that most of the castle staff were now dead, sacrificed to his mother’s ends, he could only assume it was her own hands which let blood tonight. 

He marched his way up the coiled spine of the tower’s staircase, gaze steeled and head held high. His steps echoed like cries in search of answers that never came. Normally this tower would be a chorus of howls from the tormented and forsaken; never did Gerry think he would be more haunted by their silence. This tower held prisoners no more, however. After tonight, Gerry hoped it never would again. In fact, he had half a mind to raze it to the ground in his first act as king. 

At the very top room of the tower, his mother sat by candlelight. She looked almost domestic, sitting there with her bookbinding needle and thread. She stitched together her grim work, the leathers cut from the backs of people, people who had cursed her and sworn to her both. When she looked up at Gerry she smiled, actually smiled, over what she had wrought. “A new day is dawning,” she promised him.   
  
“Yes it is,” he agreed, so softly, and he drew his dagger.

What surprised him most was how easy it was. He expected more of a fight. Maybe she didn’t expect him to actually go through with it. Maybe she was complacent in her pact. Maybe she had done it wrong. All the same, in one swift arc of his hand he split her throat wide open. Limply she crumpled to the floor, staring up at him, unblinking and smiling still somehow. Gerry found then he didn’t trust that the job was truly done, that she wouldn’t rise again. So he took the candle and burned the book on the table, heard the screams of dozens of entrapped souls. From the wall of weapons and torture implements he took an axe and cleaved his mother’s head from her body. Only then did he begin to weep, a sob rent from his body with each swing. Still she smiled at him. Still she stared. Would he ever be free of her accusing, judgmental, scrutinizing gaze? When he picked up her severed head by the hair, he swore he could still feel her watching him.

From the castle’s ramparts he lifted her head up high, and he called to all who would hear him, “The queen is dead! Her horrors have have ended!”

What guards yet remained alive cried up to him, in the name of their fallen brethren, “Long live the king!”

Gerry saw his own mother’s head placed on a pike in the castle courtyard. He had hoped it would actually feel like it was over then. That he might feel some sense of closure. That he might feel less watched.

At dawn, Gerry made his way across the city. There were revelers in the streets, and people toasted him as he passed. He had spent the night gathering as many riders as he could to spread the news far and wide, so all would know as soon as possible that the Murderous Queen had fallen. He hoped he had not abandoned his co-conspirator to some terrible fate by taking so long to return to him.

Yet when Gerry arrived at the office deep beneath the library, he found Jonah Magnus waiting for him, sitting astride Jurgen Leitner’s broken body. “I take it from the sounds of jubilation that the deed is done?” he said.

Gerry nodded once, sharply. He was finally starting to feel the full weight of the actions and the needs of his kingdom bear down on him. “It is over,” he said. “And it begins. Even now the news spreads to every corner of the land. And you? I take it I now speak to the new Head Librarian?” 

Jonah circled around the desk to fetch a cloth to wipe down the blade. “In a sense,” said Jonah. “I believe the enterprise may work best if I lead in a… more hands-off manner than my predecessor. But nevermind the order, the Library is such a small thing compared to the fate of a kingdom.”

“Perhaps,” Gerry said. He joined Jonah at his side to retrieve his blade. “If you do not mean to lead the Order of Scholars directly, could I perhaps persuade you to accept a position in my court? My late mother has left… many vacancies.”

Laying the sword down on the desk, Jonah smiled. “You honor me, my king,” he said, “but there is something I wish for more than a court appointment.”

“And what is that?”

“ _ Eternity _ ,” Jonah breathed. He gripped Gerry by the shoulders, pushed him up against the mirror behind his desk.

And Gerry fell.

He fell, and he did know how long it was he fell. Everything around him turned to silver. He screamed and it echoed all about him.

When he landed, he was back in the office, but he was alone. Yet he could see Jonah on the other side, looking in at him, grinning. He could also see  _ everything else _ .

The burden of knowing was so terrible it sent Gerry down onto his knees, clutching himself and dry heaving. He could see his whole kingdom. He could see the whole world. He knew what every person was doing everywhere and it made him sick. He could hear Jonah’s voice swirling about him.  _ “Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” _ he taunted,  _ “how far has news spread of our wretched queen’s fall?” _

“Nearly to the borders,” Gerry answered him, completely unbidden.

“Then the kingdom unites in their relief,” Jonah sighed. “Perfect.” He walked away from the mirror then, paused to carve the eyes out of Leitner’s skull, then moved on. 

Gerry ran forward, pounded on the mirror and screamed, but there was no escape for him, not anymore.

From afar he watched Jonah work. He watched Jonah slay his apprentice and claim his eyes as well. He saw him also claim the eyes from the late queen. From afar he watched Jonah set the eyes in tree resin, forging a pact of his own. Clutching it in his hands, he marched out to the ramparts, the very place where the queen’s death had been cried into the night. Jonah looked down on all the townsfolk celebrating, looked out on a countryside liberated from tyranny and rejoicing. A people as one. 

In one swift, sickening moment, they were gone.

Gerry could not remember much of what had happened, nor the immediate aftermath. The grief and terror was too great, it swallowed up bits of his mind with it. 

What a terrible thing, for a whole people to be lost. How terrible still when all left behind know, deep down, that something should be there. That there is something they should know about, a name, a place, a culture, but it is gone. Where once there was a great kingdom, now there lay but a No Man’s Land. A queen so terrible she was feared in all the kingdoms was felled, and is now remembered only vaguely. Villages and clans wander a wasteland, but could not themselves tell you where they originated from, the scattered remnants of what was not destroyed in the greatest and most horrid sacrifice ever seen in the kingdoms.

A sacrifice that the Mage Magnus lived on still.

A sacrifice beginning to grow thin.

Lingering in his silver prison, trapped further still in the tower where he slew his mother, Gerry wondered if his mind and life would last to see Jonah renew the lease on his stolen life.

At least Jon had one thing going for him that Gerry hadn’t had.

Jon wasn’t alone.

Maybe, Gerry hoped, that would save him. Him, and a whole kingdom in the balance.


	15. XV: Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. The timing of this chapter is excruciatingly coincidental. 
> 
> Hope you're all well and thanks for reading!

Jon darted through the woods, cursing his wings. He could make quick time in flight as a moth, but if he stayed in that form too long it disoriented him. The senses were all wrong, the perspective. Sometimes he worried if he stayed that way too long, he’d forget how to be a person. Just like many of the objects and plants that littered the tower. However, as a man his wings could not bear the weight of his body. They were simply vestigial at that point, and vessels for his magic. They felt like dead weight flapping behind him as he ran. What magic did he have that could possibly help him now? That could possibly help Martin?

Martin.

Darkness was settled so deeply, so permanently in the Blackwood, it was hard to tell how many hours had passed. There was no hope of catching a glimpse of the moon or the rays of dawn. Jon could only pray that it hadn’t been too long, that he wasn’t already too late.

What a fool he’d been. He’d put Martin in danger. By weakening himself enough to need to feed, he’d exposed himself, let the whole kingdom know he was alive. Let the whole kingdom know Martin was a liar. His fault. It was all his fault. But damned if he wasn’t going to make up for it.

It was then that Jon became keenly aware he was being followed.

This was a normal feeling in the Blackwood. There were so many predators it felt the forest itself was always hungry. Weaving between the trees was like picking your way between its jaws. Many of the creatures, however, had learned not to tangle with Jon over time. It was mostly the more powerful monsters that were still opportunistic enough to see him as a meal. Most of them he could fight off. Most of them.

There was a growl, deep and throaty, from behind him. Jon picked up the pace as best he could, but nimble as he was, the creature’s snarl soon came from beside him. Finally, it lunged out into the road before him, all dripping fangs and gleaming eyes.

It was not a wolf.

It had the shape of a wolf. It had a wolf’s maw, a wolf’s ears and paws. It had the gait of a wolf, the musky scent of a wolf, the bark and the hunter’s howl of a wolf as it cried out to the night that it had found its prey. But it was large, so very, very large. Much larger than any wolf had any right to be. Its shaggy coat was golden in color, its glowing eyes blue. Jon had never seen one in person before, but he knew. Werewolf. Was this the hired hunter Gerry had warned him about? Leave it to Peter to hire a monster to hunt a monster. To hire a lone wolf to take down a lonely creature.

The werewolf lunged at Jon, teeth and claws forward. He leapt back, just barely, and flared his wings in self defense. Seeing those many eyes, the wolf froze in its tracks. However, this left the two of them at an impasse. As soon as Jon dropped his wings, it would be free to attack him again. Frantically, Jon reached out with his power, scoured its mind for something he could use to persuade it. Persuade her.

Pain erupted through Jon’s consciousness. He bellowed in pain, wings dropping, and tried to pull away. The wolf’s eyes were closed tight, and she’d bit deep into Jon’s arm. If she couldn’t make eye contact with the wings, they wouldn’t hold her, and she could track Jon just as easily by scent as by sight, if not moreso.

Panting as she tore at him, Jon lashed out with his claws at the werewolf’s face. His claws were too short to cut very deep, but it was just enough pain to distract her, to get her to let go for just a moment. When she yelped and released him, Jon gathered his strength and focused, shifting into a tiny moth. He took to the sky up above her head, and fluttered away down the path.

He couldn’t die here, he couldn’t become something’s meal, not now.

Behind him, the wolf lunged.

Her jaws snapped shut around Jon, biting him out of the air.

Jon knew he had mere seconds before she finished off his tiny, fragile moth body and he woke up back at the tower again. He shifted once more, and in doing so, forced his way back out of the wolf’s mouth as he once again became a man. Jon tumbled across the ground as he was released, and felt an aching pain at his side where her teeth had torn at him. His breaths came labored from the effort of the fight already, and his chest felt as though full of sharp stones, heavy and hurting. 

The wolf, however, was not tired in the slightest. She’d been stalking him patiently, quietly, while Jon had been running all night and had already worn himself thin.

No, no. He had to get to Martin.

With all the will and effort in his body, he pushed himself up again and staggered back into a run. 

Once again the wolf leapt, knocking him to the ground. 

She easily could have jumped when he was already down. It seemed she wanted him up again before she did. She was toying with him. 

Pinned to the earth, Jon felt the creature’s jaws close around his neck. It wouldn’t kill him for good, he knew. Not going through the throat. But it would force him to wake back up at the tower, and by then it would be far too late to get to Martin on time. It wouldn’t kill him. But it would kill Martin.

Jon whimpered as the teeth started to sink in.

Then he was released, as the werewolf let out another yelp. She scrambled back, an arrow in her shoulder.

Startled, Jon sat up and pressed one hand to his neck. He saw another arrow fly, but this time the werewolf was aware enough to dodge.

A hand closed around Jon’s arm to pull him out of the way. Hunted as he was, Jon cried out and slashed blindly at the air with his claws.

“Hey, easy! Easy, it’s me!”

Jon blinked. “Tim?”

Tim crouched beside him, holding him close, nodding. Georgie and Melanie were there at his side, and another woman Jon did not recognize. It was she who bore the bow. The woman with the red scarf and the bow stood over the lot of them and readied another shot.

That was when she made eye contact with the werewolf. The werewolf, in turn, met eyes with her.

Staring into those blue eyes, the woman lowered her weapon.

“Woah! Basira! Just what do you think you’re doing!?” cried Melanie, readying her knives.

But the werewolf did not advance. The gleam of the hunt left her eyes, and her ears flattened back. Turning tail, she bolted into the dark of the wood.

“Daisy,” Basira breathed, and dashed into the woods after her.

“Where is she-- Basira! Wait!” Melanie hollered. She scrambled off in pursuit of their companion.

Bewildered, disoriented, overwhelmed, Jon sat panting and staring after them. It was Georgie’s touch that brought him back to the present. She laid a hand on his face and turned him to look at her. “You’re hurt,” she noted. From her traveling pack, she drew some bandages and set to work winding them around Jon’s neck.

Jon held still for her as best he could despite his shaking. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Didn’t,” said Tim. “We were looking for something else. I just have a knack for being where I need to be, I guess. Call it dumb luck.”

“You’re not dumb, Tim,” Jon muttered, and winced a bit as Georgie tied off the bandage tight then moved on to his arm.

“Well I’m prettier than I am smart,” said Tim.

“I don’t know about that, I’d say you’re about even on that front,” Jon said absently, watching Georgie work.

Grinning, Tim said, “You think I’m pretty?”

Jon glanced up, startled at what he now realized he’d said. “I, uh.”

Just in time, Melanie returned. “Gods that woman runs fast,” she spat, leaning against a tree to catch her breath. “Completely lost both of them. Don’t know what on earth that was about.”

“I have a feeling,” said Georgie, tying off and cutting the arm bandage. She looked to Jon. “I’m afraid I haven’t enough left for the wound on your side, but I’m not as worried about that one.”

“It’s fine, thank you,” he said. “And I’m sorry your friend took off on you. I would help you look, but I must go, it’s urgent. It’s… it’s Martin.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “What about Martin.”

“King Peter means to execute him in the morning.” Jon’s legs were already twitching for want of running.

Instinctively, Tim’s hand went straight for the hilt of his sword, despite the fact that the threat was not present. “What?”

“So I have to go, I can’t waste any more time,” said Jon. He laid a hand over Tim’s sword hand, desperate to reassure him. “I know you are angry with me, but can you forgive me? Can you trust me?”

“I don’t forgive you,” Tim said, looking Jon dead in the eyes. “But I trust you to do everything in your power to protect Martin for us. I just want you to promise me you won’t put yourself at risk for stupid reasons.”

“I might _have_ to put myself at risk.”

“Not good enough.” Tim stood then, and with his sword hand he took Jon’s hand in his and pulled him close, close enough to be sure he was listening. “You’re faster than me. I’ll never be able to keep up. I need to count on you to bring Martin back here. Besides, we need to go after Basira, and there’s strength in numbers in the Wood. Then your friends here and I? We have a plan. We’re going to save you the way you keep trying to save the rest of us. Don’t you dare make me waste it. Don’t you dare. I lost my whole family not long ago yet. It’s too damn soon to lose you too. Only just got you.”

Jon was keenly aware of how close Tim was, his head craned up to meet Tim’s eyes, nose to nose and gaze to gaze, where they could feel the warmth of each other’s breath in the cold of the night. Jon hesitated in that closeness for just a moment. But he had only a moment to spare. “I’ll bring Martin back here. I swear to you.” And he would still die for it if he had to. But he couldn’t tell Tim that.

“I’ll hold you to it,” said Tim. He released Jon then. 

The feel of Tim’s firm grip lingered on Jon’s hand. He swore he could feel him holding onto him even still.

There was something steadying about the sensation.

Jon held his head up high. “Be safe, all of you, promise me.”

“Only if you promise us in return,” said Georgie. She stood and closed up her bag.

Glancing between each of them, catching each of their steady gazes, Jon took a deep breath. They were waiting on him, counting on him. Jon couldn’t remember having been depended on like this before. “I promise, I’ll be… I’ll be as safe as I can.”

Georgie’s face fell. “Oh, Jon.”

Melanie scowled at him, and slid her arm around her wife’s waist, leading her down the trail after Basira.

For just a moment, Tim lingered, staring him down. “I am going to save you, you stubborn bastard,” he said. “Don’t you make me break my word.”

How could he promise that, though? How could he, when Jon would gladly die for Martin? Die for any of them? How could Jon promise to protect a life he did not value? That he sometimes did not even want?

So Jon did not promise anything. He only turned on his heel and continued to run, feeling the pain of the werewolf wound tugging at his side with every pounding footstep.

What a terrible thing, to have people depend on you.

What a terror, to know they cared.

Somehow Jon was beginning to miss being only a possession.


	16. XVI: The Executioner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes this week I guess except thanks for reading! Take care of yourselves.

In spite of everything, Martin had tried his best to get some sleep. He’d hate to go to his execution bleary eyed and exhausted, he wanted to show up with his head held high, afraid as he was to die. But the dungeon was deathly cold, the stone hard and unyielding, scraping at his cheeks and arms. His body shivered and ached, and his heart hammered with terror. Sleep refused to visit him that night. 

Instead, Martin stared out the window at the distant, indifferent stars. There was a narrow, barred window on the wall at ceiling level. Just enough to let air in. It wasn’t a kindness; when the rains came, and it rained heavy in the spring and fall, all the drainage from around the castle would pour directly into the dungeons, leaving the prisoners treading dirty water. For now it was only a bit damp where Martin lay, and a night breeze allowed him some fresh air even in this dank place, although it did worsen the cold. 

Maybe he should try to make peace with what was to come. There was no sense weeping over what he couldn’t help. Jon had survived before him, he could only hope he would survive his loss. Maybe Jon and Tim would stick together after he was gone, find a way to help each other. Tim had been terribly mad, but Martin could hope for a future where everyone was alright and they all got along, even if that future was without him. Maybe together, his friends could even find a way to save his poor kingdom. After all, Jon was talented and knew so much, Tim was so charming and persuasive, Georgie was so clever and resourceful, and Melanie was very tough and fearsome. They were formidable as a group.

What did he really have to offer them, anyway? Maybe this was for the best. He’d never belonged anywhere. Not even with his friends. Not even on the throne.

There might be a succession crisis after he and Peter were both gone… but he couldn’t worry about that now. There was nothing to be done. Better a succession conflict than whatever wretched business Peter might be planning.

Dawn’s light was beginning to stretch up over the horizon, trickling in through Martin’s window, when he heard the footsteps. It seemed early yet for an execution; that was more of a midday affair in Blackwood. Maybe Peter had rushed the setup to get it over with, that wouldn’t surprise him. However, when Martin rolled over to see, it was an unfamiliar face that greeted him. The man even bowed to Martin, despite his predicament. “Good morning, Prince Martin. Sleep well?”

Frowning in his uncertainty, Martin pushed himself up off the floor to sit. “Who are you?”

“Oh, I’ve gone by many names in many places,” said the stranger, rising back up, “but being that you are shortly to die, you may call me by my given name, Oliver. And I am to be your executioner.”

Martin squinted in the dim light of torches and dawn at this stranger. “We have executioners at the castle,” he remarked. “Why send away for one?”

“A few reasons, I suppose,” he said. He pulled up a guard’s stool to sit by the bars. “Perhaps he didn’t trust the locals to be unbiased enough to do the deed efficiently. Or perhaps he had need of my services specifically. Must be a reason he’d call me away from my service to King Simon. Did you know, in Altiora they execute people by pushing them off cliffs? Fascinating spectacle.”

This anecdote got Martin to sit up a bit straighter in spite of his exhaustion. “How in the world did you make it here from Altiora in an  _ evening _ ? Altiora is  _ days _ away by ship.”

“I made it here by the same skills I believe your king needs me for,” Oliver said with a slight smile. “I’m a sorcerer, my prince. Sorcerers can walk through the Place In Between, you see. Makes quick work of travel. And a sorcerer executioner? Well, your king said you’ve magic allies on your side. I think he wants to make sure your death, well, sticks. No necromancy or any of that nonsense.”

Martin grimaced at the idea that Jon or anyone else might perform necromancy on him. Well, at least he had to respect how thorough Peter had been. “Why… why come to see me, then?”

“I like to get to know the people I execute,” said Oliver with the slightest shrug. “Sign of respect to the soon to die. You’re still a person, whatever you did, and for what it’s worth… I do think the charges against you are exaggerated. You probably don’t deserve this.”

At that, Martin lunged forward, gripping desperately at the rusty bars. “If you think that then help me!”

Oliver sighed and did not budge, though there was a shift of pity in his eyes. “Not my job to help you. Quite the opposite I’m afraid. No hard feelings, you understand. I simply must fulfill my contractual duties. Simple as that. What kind of executioner would I be if I didn’t… execute.”

Martin sank back down, his hands slipping down into his lap, his head lowered. His heart was aching. The man spoke as though this were kindness, but it felt more like being toyed with. “Can you promise me one thing?”

“Depends on the promise.”

Staring into the palms of his hands, Martin said, “Can you… make it quick? I know Peter wants to… wants to  _ burn _ me. But I can’t think of a worse way to die. Can you find a way to make it as painless as possible?”

“I’ll certainly do my best,” said Oliver. His tone was as warm as a host accommodating a guest in his home. He rose to his feet, his shadow cutting through the torchlight, but after he put the guard’s stool back where he found it, he lingered. “You know. It’s a funny thing. I don’t know whether it’s instinct, a sorcerer’s intuition, or something else… but I get the feeling you’re not going to die today.”

There was a little twist of hate in Martin’s gut for this man and the way he spoke to him. “Don’t suppose that’ll change your mind about killing me either?”

“Hardly,” said Oliver. “I shall proceed with my day with the intention of fulfilling my duties. But while life’s only certainty is death, this means death is awfully busy, and will come only when it can be bothered to do so.” Oliver smiled a bright little smile, glinting in the morn. “I do hope for your sake death finds itself preoccupied today. See you soon, my prince.” He departed then, leaving Martin on the floor of his cell, frustrated and confused.

Martin lay back down in the blossoming sunlight to try to get some more rest. The sun had finished hauling itself up over the horizon and now watched over the waking world, partially veiled behind Blackwood’s pervasive ocean fog. A couple tears slipped down Martin’s cheek. He’d never fully appreciated how beautiful every cloudy morning in his kingdom was. The wisps of mist. The dance of brightening and darkening light. The clatter and hum of workers and shopkeepers rising. The sighs of the tides and waves that lapped at the far side of the castle walls. Beautiful, beautiful. Martin could hear the merry singing of birds who knew not what was to come. He saw the flittering of dawn’s butterflies drying their wings and going to collect the morning dew. One even wove in between his window’s bars to greet him.

No, not a butterfly. 

A moth. And he’d know that pattern of eye spots anywhere.

Martin sat bolt straight up, sobbing and laughing. “Jon!”

Jon shifted into a man before Martin’s very eyes, seeming to unfold somehow from thin air. He landed on his feet, only to fall immediately to his knees before Martin and gather him into his arms. “Oh. Oh I’m not too late.”

Immediately Martin returned the embrace, squeezing Jon tight. He was almost in disbelief to feel him so close, to feel his warmth in this cold, dank place, to feel Jon’s heartbeat against his. His tears soaked into the tattered linen of Jon’s tunic. “It’s not safe for you here,” he whispered.

“You think I don’t know that?” Jon said. He gave Martin another quick squeeze and rose. “But damned if I was going to leave you to die. I know you’d never leave me.”

Which was true, yet Martin could not help but fear for Jon’s life more than his own, in spite of the very present danger to himself. “But Peter--”

“Is still on the road, returning from having sent someone to kill me. Someone who already failed, mind you. But he is close, and we must make haste.” Jon advanced towards the bars. “Now, I had hoped to retrieve the keys from a guard, but it seems Peter has insisted on keeping them on his own person. Fortunately, Jonah has had me break into more than one private collection of artifacts.” From the pack at his hip he retrieved a lockpick, and reached out through the bars to fiddle with the lock. It took a minute, but soon there was a click, and the cell door fell open.

Martin stared in wonder, the way open to him. His freedom beckoned, yet still he hesitated. “But how will we get out through the town? The people… they think I betrayed them. They want me dead almost as much as Peter does.”

Jon’s expression flickered. “I… have a plan for that too.”

Reading Jon’s thoughts in his face was getting easier and easier. Martin couldn’t help but frown. “You know, I often really don’t like your plans.”

“Look, there’s no time,” said Jon. He reached out his hand, a hand Martin had once struck from Jon’s body. “Please, trust me.”

Martin took that hand without a second of hesitation. Jon held onto him tightly, but without even the slightest scratch from his claws. He led Martin out through the dungeon corridor, up the stairs, and through the back of the castle. There was an unsettling quiet in the castle halls, an echoing emptiness. Where were all the courtiers? Where were all the servants? Surely they weren’t  _ all _ out waiting on his execution. The racing thumps of their footsteps echoed. “Jon, do you know…?”

“No.”

Martin grimaced. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to consider what Peter might have done. How he might have punished those who remained loyal to Martin. All the servants Martin had loved so dearly, had known most of his life. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to no one in particular, to the emptiness. He hoped the apology settled into the stone and reached someone who could hear it. After all the charges levied against him, this was the thing that most made him feel like a traitor, like he’d let his people down.

Jon escorted Martin out back through the kitchens, where the doors were a bit more sheltered from prying eyes. There was a small garden here, much more modest than the sweeping flower gardens of the courtyard and near the front gates. Here there were vegetable patches, and a few humble shade trees. “Wait here,” Jon said. Martin crouched behind a bowed old oak, keeping an eye out, while Jon rummaged through a nearby bush. From there, he hauled a sword and scabbard out and offered them up to Martin. “I stole these for you and had them at the ready.”

“You  _ stole _ them?” said Martin, incredulous. “From the castle I hope and not from a shop, because if you--”

“Now is not the time!” Jon hissed.

Sighing, Martin hitched the sword belt to his waist and made a mental note to, if it were taken from the blacksmith, repay him someday. “Right. I’m armed. I can defend us. Which way, now.” He drew the blade and gripped it firmly, hoping it would not come to using it. He didn’t think he could bear to use it against one of his own people, even in self defense. They were innocent, they were misled.

But Jon did not lead. Instead, he dropped to his knees in the dirt path before Martin, wings draped around him, hands resting limp at his sides. Martin had seen this pose before. In the Blackwood, when they first met. When Jon offered his life to Martin.

“What are you doing?” Martin demanded, his voice hitching with his weariness. “Jon, we have to go.”

“You need your people on your side,” Jon said with a sad smile. “But they will not support you so long as they see you as a traitorous liar. But you can correct the lie. You can appease them. With my blood.”

“No,” Martin said, flatly. He had already been in disbelief at the idea of release and freedom. Now Jon’s willing sacrifice was making Martin dizzy. The world felt distant and unreal, like he was free floating in the ether, watching himself from above.

Gently, Jon coaxed the tip of Martin’s sword blade to his chest. “There. Right through the heart. It’s the only way. Martin, don’t you see? How can they execute you if the crime they wish to execute you for doesn’t exist? You will be the triumphant hero of the people once again! You can raise an army! You can--”

Martin threw the sword down into the dirt at Jon’s knees. “Fuck that!” he spat. “I don’t want an army, and I don’t want a heroism that demands your blood! Stop… stop trying to use me to justify your death wish, Jon! I won’t be part of it! I know your life has been hard! I know you’re hurting! But there’s other ways to escape the pain than death, Jon, even if you don’t believe it! You want to help me? Then help me to help you!” Martin’s tears fell much heavier than when he was slated to die. He hastily swiped them from his flushed cheeks. “How can you ask me to take your heart when you’ve already taken mine?”

Jon’s eyes widened, softened, and his wings flapped once. “What? What are you--?”

“I love you, Jon,” Martin whispered. In place of the blade, he held out his hand, though it shook. It was too desperate a time to keep this truth buried between them. “I love you, and I mean for both of us to live. Together. Whatever that means. Whatever that takes.”

Hesitant, Jon reached out and gently took Martin’s hand once again, squeezed it to still its shaking. For a moment he only held onto Martin and his own silence. “I love you too,” he finally said, and it was so fragile and quiet that Martin felt he might break it if he heard it too closely. “And I’m so sorry that I don’t know how to love without burning myself down. I think I forgot how.”

“Nobody is going to burn today,” said Martin. He pulled Jon up to his feet.

The sun peeked out through the cloud and fog, doing its best to warm the chill morning.

Jon took a deep breath and took his rightful place at Martin’s side, pressed close. His wings flared, one resting gently against Martin’s back. “There,” he whispered, after a moment. “I see a way north out of town without people to see us escape. If we hug the shoreline on the way back to the Blackwood, we should avoid Peter’s ingress. We’ll be well out of the way before he notices you’re gone, as he arrogantly believes I am already dead.”

Martin nodded. There was an anxious hammering in his chest. The idea of running for his life. The idea of being an exile, isolated from his kingdom. He did not know when he would see his home again, but he had no intention of leaving forever. Someday, he would come home, and it would be to liberate a people who needed him from the man who would use or harm them for his own ends. For now, Martin had to go to where he still had allies. To the dark and treacherous woods.

Somehow, though, the wild of the Blackwood, with all its monsters and predators, seemed far less terrifying now than the kingdom to which he was born. Maybe it was because he knew how to deal with the things that wanted him dead there.

Or maybe it was because he had the love of one of those very monsters to protect him.

In spite of fleeing for his life, as they ran through the cover of shadows for the city walls, when Martin was beside Jon he felt he was exactly where he needed to be.


	17. XVII: A Tale of Two Lone Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT, PLEASE NOTE: I have updated the tags just to be safe. Please pay attention to these warnings and read safely, thanks.
> 
> Hello! I see we have a lot of new readers here. Welcome! I think at least some of you are here because my buddy Gus posted their lovely art up on Tumblr (@thefoolishgus). Thank you Gus for sharing, go check it out if you didn't see it when it was first on Twitter. And thank you new friends for reading!
> 
> My beta reader Kathryn also has a new fic out if you like FILTH. Go check out "Nowhere Else" if you like MarTim and lovely, soft smut.

Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Blackwood, there was a terrible queen and her marvelous queensguard. The knights who served in her defense knew they served a queen who was indefensible. Cold and apathetic was she, and she cared not for the plights of the people. Yet they were some of the finest knights to ever serve any kingdom, each of them more alert, disciplined, and deftly trained than the last. And the finest among them was Ser Basira Hussein.

Every knight had their reasons for serving, and Basira had a few. None of them had a lick to do with the queen herself, who could kick the bucket any day for all Basira cared. But when she did, she would surely be succeeded by Prince Martin, the rightful heir to the throne. The opportunist Admiral Lukas certainly seemed optimistic in his courting of the queen, but Basira knew the laws, and she knew who stood to inherit the throne on the queen’s death. Prince Martin was of age, after all, and he had a great love of the people that the queen lacked. 

It wasn’t that Basira thought Martin would be a great king. Far from it, she saw him as soft and meek, easily cowed, too eager to please. If he was to be their king, in order to prevent him from letting their kingdom slip into ruin, he would need an advisor who understood law and order, and enforcing it. An advisor who understood military tactics. An advisor like her.

The other reason was Daisy.

Ser Alice Tonner, also called Ser Daisy, was Basira’s closest sister in arms. They trained together, they swore their oath to the queen together, they were inseparable, and often took on the same patrols and watches. Daisy was called so for the scar she gained on the back of her neck in defense of the castle against marauders. She wore it as a badge of honor, even wearing her hair up so all could see. 

It wasn’t that Basira thought Daisy was the most upstanding of knights. Far from it, she was ruthless and quick to violence, striking men down for so much as looking at the queen wrong. It was simply that Basira could not imagine, could not fathom her life without her sister at arms by her side. So she would serve proudly with Ser Daisy, lest no one be left to keep her in check. To protect her from herself.

It was not long before the royal wedding when the borderlands sent for aid from the crown against a recent infestation of wolves from the Blackwood. The creatures of the Blackwood were often more treacherous than any natural creature had any right to be, of course. It wasn’t uncommon for the folks who lived in its shadow to send for aid. The queen, for all her indifference, granted it, sending out a company of her own knights to slay the creatures, and among that company was Daisy. Basira prepared her gear to join them.

“I think not,” the queen had told her. “With preparations for my wedding underway, I intend to keep my best knight right by my side. You shan’t go anywhere.”

Who was Basira to defy a direct order from the queen? She swore an oath to her service, after all, and was thus duty bound to obey her. So while Daisy marched out with a small complement of their colleagues, Basira stayed with the queen to guard her as she greeted foreign dignitaries come to honor the marriage. 

What did Basira really have to worry about, though? She hated not being with Daisy while she was out in the field, it was true. But Daisy was a formidable warrior with finely honed killing instincts. What match were a few pesky wolves against her?

Basira believed in Daisy, wholly and utterly. She trusted her more than life itself. And with all the mood of romance in the air, as unromantic as the royal wedding itself was, Basira found herself begrudgingly thinking things she’d never allowed herself to consider before. Things that were a distraction from Basira’s duties. But she knew where her true loyalty lay, and perhaps, when Daisy returned, they could discuss the matter, calmly and rationally, as sisters in arms. Yes, sisters in arms.

Daisy never came back from that mission.

Of course Basira petitioned the queen as soon as the patrol failed to come back when scheduled. She was dismissed out of hand, told they must have been waylaid by another matter, that Basira must be patient. But day after day, the patrol failed to return, and each day also Basira’s appeals to send a company after them were rebuffed. 

A week after the patrol disappeared, Basira left her arms and armor, and the medal she bore as a knight in service of Her Majesty’s queensguard, on the floor before the throne, and took her leave. Never again would she lift a sword for her kingdom, not when they abandoned their finest so easily.

For weeks Basira scoured the edges of the Blackwood for any sign of the lost patrol, but found none. Often she wondered, had she been given leave to search for them in a timely manner, would she have been able to help them? To find them? To know anything at all of what had become of them? It was all a fruitless exercise in rhetoric, of course, because she would never know. Just as she knew she’d never know what became of her Daisy.

Instead, Basira hoped to swear herself to a different kind of service. A service which, perhaps, might help her to better understand the wretched woods which had taken her most treasured person away.

Thus Basira came to the town of Green Arches, and pledged herself to the Order of Scholars.

***

Some things are not as they seem. Some wolves are not wolves.

Daisy knew her first mistake was underestimating her quarry. She’d grown complacent after years in and around the capitol, picking off bandits and hapless would-be assassins and hangers on who pestered the queen with their trivialities. Soft, weak things. They barely ever put up a fight, and most of them tried to run. Tried.

These were creatures of the Blackwood, though, wild and feral and monstrous. Things like her. Things that stalked and hunted, things that killed with determination and precision. Things that dedicated themselves to a pack and never let go. How could she ever forget? This was not her first faceoff with a wolf. Not by far. Once she’d been a fine hunter and upstanding citizen, once long ago before she’d taken up the blade for the crown. Oh, how arrogant and careless she’d become.

The creatures got the best of them, and quickly.

Creatures, not wolves.

They were too large, too fearless to be any true wolves. In their eyes was the calculating shrewdness of the human gaze. 

Werewolves. 

Teeth like daggers and claws like scythes, they ripped through leather and chain to get at skin and muscle and fat. Most were devoured, wailing like children for their mothers and the gods and the devils and anyone who would listen. Daisy very much expected to join them, but she wouldn’t go down bawling and fussing, she would go down in a bloodsoaked fury, and she would take as many of her killers down with her as possible. Ragged, bitten and torn, she managed to drive her blade through the thick, enchanted hides of three of the creatures. She was still trying to wrench her blade from one of their skulls when she was finally pinned. Far from taking it lying down, she lunged up and bit at its throat with her own human teeth, snarling.

With her face pressed up close to its fur, she could swear she heard it chuckle. Its wretched fangs sank into her flesh at the base of her neck and she screeched not in terror but in fury. How dare it? How dare this base and miserable creature fell her? How dare it take her from her duties? From Basira?

But she was not eaten. Under the sunset, bleeding its pinks and oranges over her, she lay. All the remaining beasts sat in a ring around her, watching her carefully. Wounded as she was, she struggled to push herself to her feet and keep fighting. Her limbs gave out readily each time she made it almost to her feet, and she cursed the limitations of her mortality. 

At least, she did until moonrise.

With the sun falling at last to the horizon, the moon turned her cold gaze on the world. Then the first change came upon Daisy. Her very bones wrenched and twisted, and her muscles distorted down to the core. Writhing on the ground, her screams became howls as her frame buckled, contracted and warped, and her skin struggled to follow suit. It broke it places, only to heal over them as animal pelt. Her blonde hair erupted from the whole of her skin, thick and wiry. When she thought she was dying, she remembered thinking of Basira and home. Reborn into this new body, she thought of nothing at all. She only hungered.

Off into the Blackwood she bolted, snapping and slobbering. She hunted and fed as the wolves do, and the pack followed her on that mindless and ravenous first night of instinct and predation.

She wished she could say she hated it.

Never in her life had she felt so free. 

Exhausted, she woke the next morning, and found herself at a camp, a fire nearby, with people all about her washing in the brook and exchanging fresh leather clothing from packs. Someone had laid a blanket over her for her decency, for which she was both grateful and affronted. If someone had seen something before she was covered, she’d have their eyes. 

One of the once-wolves, now an old man, said, “Well damned if that wasn’t the best first-night hunt I’ve been on in a long time. It won’t always be like that, mind you. You start to have more control of the Change and the Power over time. But ain’t it something to run through the trees all teeth and claws like you own the forest?”

Daisy’s eyes narrowed. “I should kill you for what you did to my people.”

The man barked out a laugh at that. “You’re welcome to try, lass.”

Daisy scowled and she wondered why she didn’t try right in that instant. Maybe it was the nakedness beneath her blanket. Maybe it was because she was still high off the night’s hunt. Maybe part of her was grateful. “So why me? Why did you spare me?”

“Wish I could tell you,” he said, “but it weren’t me.”

“It was me.” A woman with short dark hair dropped a set of clothes on Daisy. “Y’know it’s not every day you have a woman on the ground and she tries to bite you back. Couldn’t let that kind of predatory instinct go to waste. You’re like us.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Daisy spat, unsure who she was trying to convince, them or her.

It didn’t work either way, because both the man and woman laughed sharply at that, and Daisy knew deep down it served her right.

“Sure,” the woman scoffed, “and I’m the Queen of Blackwood.”

“Might as well be,” Daisy muttered. “The queen we’ve got isn’t worth a damn.”

The old man glanced sideward at her. “Aren’t you meant to be a knight or something.”

Daisy held up her hands and stared at her arms, all the bite marks from last night healed over and gone. “Not anymore.” She sighed and dropped them to her sides. “So… which one of you is the… I guess alpha wolf.”

Snorting, the old man said, “No such thing. Misconception. I  _ suppose _ , as the eldest, I am in charge by default.”

“You wish, old man,” said the woman. “ _ I’m _ in charge. We just follow this mangy stray dog around to make sure he doesn’t drop dead.”

“That so, Little Miss Julia? We’ll see what tune you’re singing next time we have to wade through bat guano and bear leavings to scout a cave and see if it’s safe for camping. We’ll see who’s taking the front then.”

Julia leaned over and elbowed her companion. “Right, come on, Trevor. Give the woman her privacy to get dressed. We need to be moving camp.”

Sitting up a bit, Daisy held the blanket to her chest. “Think we could stay here a night or two longer?” she said. “I’d like to head back and tell my partner what happened, at least. Or send her an eagle.”

“No,” Trevor said, flatly. He stood with some effort, snatched up a branch from the ground, studied it, then planted it firmly as a walking stick. “You’re with the pack, now. Can’t have our packmates having mixed loyalties. You’re more than welcome to wander off, but I’ve never seen a lone wolf, especially a new one, last more than a night on their own. We may be dangerous, but this forest is a monster all its own, the most powerful of them all, and it’ll chew you up and spit you out soon as anything.”

Daisy glared up at him. She wanted to tell him that she’d take him up on his offer, that she’d show them all. But arrogance had felled her once of late, and she was smart enough not to let her hubris topple her again. “Fine.” She’d play their game, for now. Until she had control of her newfound powers. Until she’d learned to track, to hide, to hunt their way. 

Someday she’d find her way back to Basira.

Someday these sorry dogs would be sorry they stood between them. 

***

Such was Knight Errant Ser Basira’s skill and expertise that she found the Order of Scholars to be a perfect fit. She had a lifelong love of learning, and whenever she wasn’t on duty she read voraciously. With an aching void in her life left from the loss of Daisy and of her former duties, she sought the solace of knowledge. They say that to know your enemy is to conquer them. Thus Basira dedicated herself particularly to the study of magic, of magical creatures and places.

Due to her area of study, she was assigned to study under Master Librarian Elias Bouchard. It was beyond Basira how someone like Elias Bouchard became a Master Librarian. He was flighty, poorly organized and easily distracted. Though, what he lacked in obvious academic skill he made up for in raw knowledge. After all, Elias Bouchard was a wizard, and not everyone could take up wizardry and live to tell about it--at least, so Basira’s research seemed to indicate. His speciality was herbalism, and he had trained more than a few healers in Green Arches in the craft. He also knew a thing or two on magical defense, indeed had even been summoned on assignment to the capitol of Faege to help them refortify their castle, from which he’d only recently returned. Basira didn’t particularly enjoy his company, but she was glad to be working with someone as interested in magic as her.

Unfortunately, resources on magic seemed scarce, and access to some tomes was restricted to Master Librarians, particularly the practical stuff. “For safety, you understand,” Elias had told her. For an organization whose motto was Knowledge For The Sake of Knowledge, it seemed odd to hold it back. If Elias hadn’t even been able to achieve the expertise he’d need to be a wizard before his promotion, then Basira  _ really _ didn’t know how he was made a Master Librarian. But far be it from her to question her superiors. She was, after all, dedicated to her duty, and in the absence of her lost partner, she needed somewhere to swear her loyalty. This order was all she had now.

One name that naturally kept coming up in Basira’s research was that of the Mage Magnus. This enigmatic figure was said to be the world’s foremost scholar in magic, the most talented of wizards, rumored to have unlocked the secret to immortality itself. And he must have, for there were tales going back over many ages and many aliases of his exploits. Basira half-suspected the name was simply a title handed down from master to apprentice. However, Elias insisted to her that the Mage Magnus was indeed but one man, and not only that, but the Order’s main patron and benefactor, who had once rested control of the Order from the wicked Jurgen Leitner to save them.

“So how do you know that?” asked Basira.

“I was taught, as all librarians are, as part of our proud history,” said Elias, thumbing through a tome on trees and their magical properties.

“Yes, but where is it written? How do we know all that?”

This line of questioning seemed to make Elias uncomfortable, and immediately he changed the subject, showing Basira the fruits of his research. 

Not one to be so easily dissuaded, Basira brushed his papers aside and made steady eye contact. “Elias,” she said, slowly, firmly. “How is it that we have so  _ little _ information on someone so important to the Order?”

“It’s… he…” Elias furrowed his brow. He was so airheaded that Basira had often see him struggle through a thought. This was different though. It was the look of someone actively fighting against something, and losing. “He’s… elusive. He does not want to be disturbed.”

“Then  _ why _ do we keep sending people to talk to him?” Basira pressed. She planted her hands on Elias’ desk, over his books and scrolls, and leaned in. “I’ve seen you do it, I’ve seen you refer people to his expertise, to his collections. If he wants to be left alone, why send people to him? If he… if he wants to…” The line of questioning was making her very tired, but she ignored it. At the time, she thought she was just frustrated.

“I… maybe I could ask him?” Elias said, tentatively, drumming his fingers on his desk. “I am a Master Librarian of the Order, after all. Surely he would be keen to hear my appeal?”

“I think maybe that would be best,” said Basira. If she wanted to understand as much as she could about magic, she was sure that the Mage Magnus was key. But if she was going to seek him out for study, she wanted to know what she was getting into first. After losing Daisy, she wasn’t about to trek across the treacherous Blackwood for what might turn out to be a wild goose chase.

Later she would wish that was all it was.

Elias never did come back from seeking the Mage Magnus for information. At first, Basira blamed that same treacherous Blackwood and its myriad beasts that had taken Daisy from her.

Then, some months later, she realized with great alarm that she’d forgotten him.

It came upon her all at once while sorting through papers in the office. She saw some research, and she recognized it as some of the Mage Magnus’ own. That was when a stubborn part of her mind loudly insisted that this was not so. 

Alarmed at the discrepancy in her very own thoughts, Basira went straight to the branch’s Head Librarian and inquired about Elias Bouchard.

“Ah yes!” the head librarian told her cheerfully. “One of the many aliases of our own Mage Magnus. Did you know it was he who fortified the Castle of Gardens at Faege with magic? He even taught many of our own local healers as part of his charitable outreach work.”

“I… but no.” Basira stared at the floor, wrestling in her head against a fog which settled as thick and deep as Blackwood’s own. “I… Elias Bouchard… I knew him.”

“You’ve met the Mage Magnus?” the head librarian asked. “How fortunate! Few even in the Order are lucky enough to meet him.”

Basira shook her head. It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t remember particularly clearly what she knew about Elias, but she knew she would not allow him to be forgotten or pushed aside the way Daisy was. Basira was so very tired of people being abandoned by the very people they’d sworn loyalty to. Basira knew where her oaths lay. She knew where her loyalties belonged. She was loyal to the Order of Scholars. And if that loyalty meant she had to turn on the very head of the organization itself, then so be it. 

Basira was loyal to the Order, and the Order could not be trusted.

***

Daisy knew that many had always thought her rash and impulsive, quick to violence. But Daisy also knew how to bide her time.

She traveled with the pack for years, hunting alongside them, training and learning. There was something to be said for safety in numbers and the benefit of years of experience surrounding her. Together the pack had felled even terrible manticores and drakes, bringing them down with their collective strength. In a way, it felt like being part of a group of warriors again. 

But Daisy had not forgotten. She would not forget what these creatures had done.

For their part, Trevor and Julia both watched her like hawks for well over the first year, waiting for any sign of insubordination, quick to snarl and snap and put her in her place. Daisy pretended well enough to be cowed and submit. She could let them think they had control. It wouldn’t do to lash out too soon. 

In time, Trevor and Julia learned to trust Daisy and accept her as part of the pack. One of them. Just like them, they said.

Indeed.

Finally came Daisy’s chance. Julia had asked her to come along on a hunt with her alone, while the rest of the pack set up camp. “I think it’s time,” Julia told her. “You’ve learned what I’ve taught you well.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Daisy said.

She followed Julia’s lead, tracking deer through the forest. They took on their lupine forms. Daisy could transform as she pleased, now, with experience and time, and she knew how to hang onto her human mind no matter how bestial she was in body. On a ridge they perched in the underbrush, watching a herd graze. There was a doe at the back slightly smaller than the rest, easy to pick off, but still large enough to feed the pack. Julia’s body language told Daisy to wait on her signal. Daisy did so, her gaze fixed on Julia’s face, watching how she tracked, how she waited. Finally, the herd moved, and the small doe had lingered just a little too far behind. Julia’s ears perked in a signal that told Daisy “now.”

Daisy took her cue without hesitation.

Later, at sundown, it was Trevor who came looking for them. Of course it was Trevor, Daisy knew it would be. The old man loved Julia like a daughter, and he was arrogant enough in his own abilities, complacent enough in his position, that he came alone. He would find Julia’s body, now all too human, the curse broken with her death, impaled on a sharp branch, posted up for him to find.

In his grief and rage he shook, staring in shock. He did not think to transform. 

Just as Daisy hoped.

She drove another handmade spear straight through his heart from the back. Now they matched. Together in death.

When the rest of the pack came looking later, they would find the bodies of their defacto leaders and a message scrawled in blood which read DO NOT FOLLOW.

To their credit, they never did.

Now Daisy had her revenge, and she had her freedom, and still she retained the power that had been thrust upon her and yet even still grown to love. For a time, she gleefully prowled through the woods, bringing down unwary travelers and those villagers who wandered in too far from the borderlands. Much as she wanted this freedom, though, Daisy would quickly find she didn’t do well alone. It gave her too much quiet and too much room to think.

To think about how no one had ever come looking for her.

To think about all Julia had said about how much alike they were.

Daisy had dismissed it. She was a trained warrior, not some base and savage animal. Or was she?

Maybe there was a reason no one had ever come for her.

Maybe it was not revenge she needed, but atonement. 

Thus Daisy took up a cottage near the edge of the Blackwood. There, she began to offer her services as a huntswoman, picking off creatures just like her in defense of people she’d once toyed with like prey. For every life she protected from monsters, she hoped she at least somewhat made up for one she’d taken. It would probably never be enough. The devils would probably have her some day. But ask anyone up and down the border and they would tell you, the Huntswoman at the Edge of the Blackwood is the finest and fiercest hunter you could ever hope to hire. 

When the king came to her that early morning, just barely before dawn, light only just peeking up over the horizon, and told her he needed her to slay the wretched Beast of Eyes… how could she refuse? The Beast of Eyes was a legend, one of the most feared creatures of the Blackwood. Daisy wouldn’t even accept payment for a job like this. If she could take down a monster like the Beast of Eyes, maybe that wouldn’t fully save her soul… but maybe she would have made up for enough of her violence to dare try to show her face to Basira again. If Basira would even deign to look at her.


	18. XVIII: Reunions and Unions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Please forgive the lateness of the update, there was... a lot I needed to fit in there.
> 
> Also, for those of you who aren't on the Patreon, my winning piece from the Fluff Contest is going public this week as part of the hiatus so... enjoy that.

Not so long ago, Martin could recall, the Blackwood had been a place of mortal dread. Now compared to home it seemed the safest place in the world. Perhaps it was because he had one of the most fearful things in the wood at his side, holding lovingly and protectively tight to his hand. It was strange to think of Jon as dangerous now. For all his claws and psychic powers, Martin looked on Jon and could only see a man, vulnerable and fragile, who he loved dearly. And who also loved him, which was an awfully strange thing to think. Jon used a branch to clear away brush and dry leaves to set a camp, and Martin found himself distracted from his own chores watching him, gazing on the fine angles of his cheekbones, his tender lips, the delicate lacework of scales that formed his wings. 

The idea that someone so remarkable would love Martin was unfathomable, unthinkable to him. He was unaccustomed to being loved. Tolerated, perhaps. Admired from a distance by people who didn’t really know him. But Jon had come to know him, even at his lowest, and he loved him unconditionally. Jon who was more selfless than he could see, braver than he realized, stronger than he knew. Martin wondered if he could do anything to help Jon see what he was worth. Then he found he didn’t wonder much at all, as his mind was possessed only of watching the grace of Jon’s light footfalls as he wove between the trees and shrubbery. How easily he shifted and bent with his environment, how much he was a part of it, lean and flexible like a reed in the wind. And who should be so lucky to weather every wind with him?

“Martin?”

No, it couldn’t be.

“Martin.”

Oh, right. Martin straightened up with a start. “Ah! Yes?”

“The stones for the fire pit?”

Martin glanced down into his arms at the stones he cradled there, entirely forgotten. “Right. Yes.” He moved to the space Jon had cleared and knelt down to place them. From the corner of his eye he could see Jon smiling fondly at him, and his cheeks flushed. “And you’re sure this is the right place?”

“I am,” Jon said. He scraped together some old dry wood at the edge of the clearing.

“How are you always so sure?” Martin sat up a little straighter after placing the last of his stones in the circle.   
  
“I have ways of knowing these things.”

Sighing, Martin gave a fond and exasperated smile. “Jon, you’re being vague again.”

Jon blanched and flicked his wings. “...sorry. It’s… well, my powers, they give me the ability to sense the whereabouts of people if I focus on them, even slightly into the most probable future.” He knelt to place a bed of branches on the firepit. “I believe it’s meant to help me track my, ah…” He hesitated, his hand still on a log, face twisting into a grimace. “...my prey.”

Martin reached over the pit, laid a hand over Jon’s. “You’re not a predator.”

That grimace matured into a full scowl, but to Jon’s credit he did not recoil from Martin’s touch. “You cannot refuse my nature just because you do not want it to be so.”

“It is exactly your constant struggle to refuse that nature that shows me it is so,” said Martin. He took Jon’s hand gently in his and, when he still did not pull away, lifted it to place a soft kiss upon it. He saw Jon shiver and soften, all the tension in his frame falling away, and Martin smiled against his skin. “You are more than the role he forced you into. You are certainly more than that to me.”

Under the weight of his own curiosity, Jon tipped his head to the side. “And what am I to you?”

That question gave Martin pause. He lifted his head, but kept hold of Jon’s hand as long as he was allowed. “What would you like to be?”

From the awed look on Jon’s face, it had been a dreadfully long time since anyone had ever been interested in what he wanted and what role he wanted to play. Martin could relate. “Whatsoever it is that would give the most joy to your dear heart, that is what I would be.”

That selfsame dear heart was now choking Martin, having crawled up his throat in elation at hearing that. He swallowed it down with one deep breath. “I would have you as my partner, my love, if you would take me as yours.”

“And you will have me,” Jon said, his voice shaking ever so slightly. For a moment, just a moment, he averted his eyes. “Forgive me my uncertainty but… you are sure? Truly? I cannot imagine the nobles and courtiers would look kindly on a monster seated beside the throne of the king.”

Martin couldn’t help but laugh at that. He slid around the firepit, closer to Jon’s side, to help him finish setting up the campfire. “Aside from the fact that I cannot say when I will ever see the end of this exile… I shall be king, Jon. And when I am king, people will know the truth of you, and my edicts will protect you, and whatever I must do to defend your safety and your honor will be done. I will pledge knights to your defense if I must.”

“It is not myself I worry for.”

“You never do,” Martin said. He took a flint in hand, struck it a few times to set sparks to the dry wood and watched the flame take. “So I will worry for you. And you can worry for me if you wish but I believe that when I have my victory over Peter, when my kingdom is safe and secure, that I will be able to know your love in peace. I have hope. Maybe that’s foolish.”

“I would have said so once,” said Jon, gazing into his face in helpless surrender, unable to turn away. “Looking into your eyes makes me want to believe it so.”

“Then I will believe for both of us too.”

***

After all those years, Basira had never forgotten the look of Daisy’s eyes. She’d know them anywhere. Even in the frame of something inhuman.

With every crackling footfall through the underbrush in pursuit, she cursed herself and her failure. If only she’d kept looking, would she have found her? Would she have spared her? For all her research into magic, nothing she’d read had indicated to her that werewolves were anything but legend. Yet more evidence that knowledge was being shielded from her.

She could not think on that right now, on her quest or anything of the like. She could only think on Daisy. And while Daisy had the stamina of a wolf on her side, Basira had her own raw stubbornness and adrenaline fueling her forward. She had to be sure. She must have her answers. A librarian sworn to the order always has an answer, even if it is not the one you want.

Reaching a steep ledge, all exposed roots and stone, Daisy skidded to a halt, cornered. There she finally turned round and bared her teeth.

Basira slowed to a halt before her. “You’re not going to hurt me,” she said confidently.

The wolf’s ears flattened back, still snarling. She backed up against the earthen wall.

“Do you need a change of clothes?” asked Basira. She unshouldered her traveling pack and kicked it towards Daisy. “There’s a couple in there. Take what you need.”

For a moment, Daisy only stared at the pack. Finally, she lowered her head and shifted, becoming once again a woman. There was an audible crackling as she shifted, and from the stony look on her face, it was not so much that it did not hurt as that she was used to the pain by now. Once transformed, she rifled through the bag, pulling out a tunic, smallclothes, and trousers, and set to dressing. It was hardly a new sight, they’d dressed before each other in the barracks so many times before. If anything, it was almost nostalgic, like getting ready in the mornings of the old days. Before all of this.

“Why didn’t you come back?” asked Basira.

Daisy snorted at that. “Why didn’t you look for me?”

“I did!” Basira snapped. “You’re not exactly easy to find when you don’t want to be.”

“Yes, because the queensguard would’ve gladly accepted me back with open arms, I’m sure.” Daisy scoffed at the very notion, furiously tugging a leather vest on over her tunic. “They would’ve put the sword to me the moment they knew what I’d become, even if I could’ve gotten away.”

There was a fury and a grief that fought over custody of Basira’s heart. “Do you  _ really _ think I would’ve taken their side over yours?”

Daisy faltered at that, partway through tugging on a boot. Finally she shoved it on and set to lacing it. “Hardly matters now. Past is gone. I’m here now, and so are you. What do you mean to do? You shot me. Going to finish the job?”

“No,” said Basira, firmly. 

“Suppose I want you to.” Daisy finished putting on her second boot and stared up at Basira. “I am a monster Basira.”

Basira took a step forward, held a hand out to her. “You didn’t choose to become this.”

“I was a monster  _ before _ I was a werewolf, Basira, and you know it.” Daisy tucked one of Basira’s spare daggers into the boot and stood. “I have been trying to atone. Who better to hunt monsters than a monster herself, right? But I take it the Beast of Eyes is, what, a friend of yours?”

Hand still outstretched, Basira shrugged. “Friend of a friend, more like. Listen, Daisy, please…”

“Don’t,” Daisy said. She did not return her hand, only stared into Basira’s palm. “I’ll take that hand when I deserve it, but we both know I don’t.”

While Basira didn’t know what Daisy had been up to all these years, she did know Daisy well enough to guess. For a moment they simply stood in a wordless stalemate, eyes locked, years of separation having dug a trench between them deeper than Basira was prepared to cross right now. Far be it from her to be deterred from building a bridge, though, however long it took.

“Basira, what in all of the hells!” Melanie’s voice cut down the silence as she emerged from the thick of the wood, her companions in tow. “Care to let us in on whatever this is?”

“Not really,” said Basira. She reached out and grabbed her pack, strapping it back shut. “But I suppose I should. Everyone, this is Daisy. Daisy, this is everyone.”

“Hi,” Daisy said, gruffly, not looking at any of them. She rubbed at the shoulder where she’d been shot, but in transforming it had healed almost completely. 

Tim stood at the back of the group, rubbing his temples. “Great, alright, we’re taking the werewolf that tried to kill Jon along with us too now, I guess,” he said. “Basira, if she tries anything…”

“She won’t,” said Basira. “Lead on. I’ll explain on the way.”

***

Jon assumed at one point, years ago, that any luck he had ever had ran out. Looking at Martin now, his face aglow by the flickering of the fire, it still felt like someone was playing an awful trick on him that was about to end at any second. But every time he closed and opened his eyes, Martin was still there, and glad to be with him. Caring, nurturing, loving Martin, who loved him in spite of all that Jon was. Perhaps, instead,  _ because _ of all he was? That didn’t seem possible. Yet it refused to stop being true. Jon couldn’t stop gently laying his hand on Martin’s hand, his shoulder, his cheek, just to see if he really was still there. Each time he did Martin nuzzled closer and Jon felt himself possessed of a warmth he’d forgotten the feel of. So, experimentally, Jon laid his head down to rest on Martin’s soft shoulder. When he did, Martin slid an arm around his waist, tucked under his folded wings, and held him in close. A few tears sank into the fabric of Martin’s tunic, and he politely declined to mention the matter to Jon. 

Jon savored the moment as deeply as he could, for they would not be alone for long.

“Jon! You’re back!” came Tim’s cry, echoing between the trees. “Well, we found our strays, and--” He froze at the edge of the clearing, and his eyes overflowed with emotions he could not hold inside himself. “Martin! Martin, you’re alright!” He rushed forth in such a mad scramble to get to Martin that he nearly stumbled straight into the fire.

Martin laughed gladly and pried himself away from Jon’s side to go to receive Tim, embracing him. 

Jon felt cold in his absence, but he was glad to see everyone returning safe. “I told you I would bring him back.”

“I knew you would,” Tim said, firmly, as he finally let go of Martin. His gaze fell to Jon then, and he smiled at him, truly and fondly, for the first time in a while. Jon wondered why his breath hitched. Then Tim said, “Listen, I should probably try to explain--”

That was when Jon saw the blonde woman.

The werewolf.

Jon leapt to his feet, wings splayed, and the collected party all froze around him. “Stay back,” he barked. Things were going too well for Jon to let the hunter have him now, or let her anywhere near Martin.

“Relax,” the wolf, now woman, said. “I’ve no quarrel with you. I know the king lied to me.”

“I promise, it really is alright,” Georgie offered herself. “Daisy’s a friend of Basira’s, and Basira is a friend of ours so… you’ll be safe, I promise. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

Hesitant, Jon lowered his wings and everyone else relaxed when freed from his thrall. “Fine, if you say so.”

“Warn me next time, would you?” Tim said, rubbing his shoulder. “If you catch me in the wrong position, I get the worst tension.”

Blushing, Jon sat back down at the fireside. “Sorry.”

Tim wasn’t upset though. He was grinning. Both he and Martin took their seats at the fire.

Jon squinted at him. “What. What are you smiling about.”

“I saw you two together,” said Tim, coyly.

Before Jon could say anything in his defense, before he could deflect or play it down, Martin took his hand and confidently said, “Yeah. We… well it was time. We knew it was true.” And in Martin’s grip Jon was weak and soft and he could not say a thing, only nod.

“I just knew you two would figure it out eventually,” said Tim. He grabbed a nearby stick and poked at the fire. “It was obvious to everyone else, so even you two had to sort it out at some point.”

Martin spluttered at that, which was helpful to Jon as he himself was speechless. “Obvious huh? Well what do you. I mean. Did you really. I don’t think. If you just.” None of his sentences found their endings.

Tim just smirked. “Nah. First time I saw both of you together, I knew. It’s perfect, really. Couldn’t think of any two people who deserve each other more. First couple of people to ever help me out after the worst thing to ever happen to me? I’m glad to see you happy together. I am. You do deserve it.” It was starting to sound like an argument as much as he held tight to that smile on his face. His gaze fixed on the fire. “But hey, if you ever want to mix it up and add a third.” He winked and laughed the uncertain laugh of someone who isn’t sure they get the joke. But it was his joke.

The light of the fire played beautifully in the reflection of Tim’s dark eyes. They were distant, thoughtful. Jon watched them a while and he didn’t know what to say.

Sometimes Jon wished he was really, truly psychic, that he was fully omniscient the way Jonah was. That way, he might have been able to prepare himself for what Martin said next, “Well… yeah, why not?”

Tim sat bolt straight up on the log he’d perched on. “What?”

Jon twisted to the side to look Martin in the face. “Beg pardon?”

At the sudden scrutiny, Martin blanched a bit and sank in his seat. “I mean… only if both of you are alright with it, of course, but I… I care so much about both of you, you know? And Jon, you were worried about me, right? Politically I will… well, I’ll need to marry into royalty, and if I’m with you, Tim, with a good man who cares for me, who would protect and support me, I can know I’ll marry well, and not be stuck with some… rotten opportunist or worse. And Jon, with the power of both of our kingdoms we can keep you safe and free, and we can keep you close. It’s not unheard of for kings to take on… um… well, consorts and the like. It’s…” There was a smile that crept onto his face in spite of his uncertainty. “Well I think it’s perfect. But… what do… Jon, I chose you, I chose you first, what do you think, love?”

Jon thought there was no way he deserved such a thing, to have both of them. But they were both looking on him so hopefully, curiously, longingly. Both of them radiant in the twilight. Both of them waiting on him. Wanting him. “I…” Couldn’t. Shouldn’t. How could he dare to be so arrogant, so audacious as to accept both of their love. “Yes. Yes. Eternally, yes.”

Beaming, Martin turned to Tim who was, for once, stunned to complete silence. “There. There you have it. Have us. If you weren’t, um… if you weren’t kidding.”

“Who’s kidding,” Tim breathed. He launched himself at Martin, pulling him close and claiming his lips. They almost seemed to glow as they clung to each other, arms wrapped tight and no space to be found between them, locked together and complete.

There was only a moment to be spared wondering at their passion before Jon was swept up too. Tim gathered Jon’s slight frame in his arms, firm but careful of his wings, and dipped him low as he kissed him. Jon went slack in Tim’s grip, wound his arms up around his neck and let himself dangle there, held, safe. He remained limp and light as Tim lowered him back down to sit at Martin’s side.

When Martin pulled Jon in close to hold him upright, Jon closed in and kissed him too without a second thought. There was a momentum that flowed through him, between the three of them, and it carried Jon through to finish the motion. Tim’s kiss was solid, steady and certain, the rock in the river that holds you from washing away. Martin’s kiss was soft and yielding, accepting as his embrace, and Jon felt himself relax into it. When they finally parted he simply slumped into Martin’s arms, cradled there as Tim rested against Martin’s side. The three of them huddled in the dark as others moved about them to set the camp.

“Maybe I should… er, maybe we should help?” Martin said, uncertain.

“You just escaped prison. And Jon, you can’t stop trying to die. I think both of you have done enough,” said Tim into Martin’s shoulder and the nape of his neck. “We can both rest for just a while.”

It was hard to argue with that when both of them were so soft and warm and he could feel their love for him wrapped around him. A love that was almost alien to him.

Almost.

With a growing discomfort, Jon shifted. “As long as we’re… ah, opening up, I suppose? In more way than one. Ah. You should know, there is… one other.”

“Oh?” Tim said.

Jon stared up from where he lay across Martin’s lap, into the interwoven tangle of branches overhead, into the stars which he could not see past them. “I have a companion, at Jonah’s tower. Gerry. He is trapped in a mirror. He has been my only friend for so long and I… I never thought, never allowed myself to think too hard about how I felt but I… he was always there for me, and if we are to be… more than a couple, I think I should like to be his as well if he would have me. For all the time he took care of me.”

“Of course,” Tim agreed, at once.

Martin, for his part, was a bit more hesitant this time, but still he said, “Y-yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Jon couldn’t focus on that tone shift. He could only think of Gerry, up in the tower. “I’ve abandoned him,” he whispered, voice straining. “I’ve left him alone with that monster. I can’t afford to go back for him, not right now, I know Jonah’s onto me, he knows I’ve been doing things behind his back, stealing from him, defying him. I don’t know what he’ll do to me if I go back now. To us. Oh, Gerry…” Jon’s throat tightened and he felt tears threatening to fall, but he couldn’t bear to let them, it would feel too real then.

“We’ll find a way to get him out,” Tim said, his voice low and grave. He leaned in over Jon’s face so he could see how serious he was. “I will find a way to free you both. We both will. I promise.”

“I… I am always going to do what’s best for you, Jon,” Martin said. There was a slight trace of sadness in his face, and something that Jon couldn’t quite place. “You’re allowed to be happy and I’m going to make sure of it.”

“Thank you,” Jon whispered. He wasn’t sure if he could be saved, if Gerry could be saved, but he couldn’t help but appreciate the sentiment, it had been so long since anyone had cared about them.

“In the meantime, I think you need someone to take your mind off things,” Tim said, suddenly brightening up. “You’ve been too gloomy and death obsessed. I think I can help.” He rose to his feet and stood over Martin. “My dearest, may I borrow our beloved for a moment?”

Martin gave him a faltering smile. “Oh. Well, of course love.” He bent down and kissed Jon’s forehead, then let him go.

Jon sat up, a bit confused about what Tim was on about. “What are you…”

Tim held out his hand to Jon. “Mr. Sims, may I have this dance?”

Skeptically, Jon squinted at that hand. “There is no music here, Tim.”

A faux sheen of surprise and confusion washed over Tim’s face. “What? What do you mean? Just listen. You’ve got the crickets, the cicadas, the owls, the wolves in the distance. You’ve got… you’ve got whatever that bird is.”

Jon fluttered his wings and his black eyes glinted in the night. “That’s a nightingale.”

“Yeah! The music’s all around us, so come on!” Tim pulled Jon to his feet, which made his heart flutter, too.

Helplessly, Jon stumbled along as he was pulled to the most open part of their camp clearing. Tim helped straighten him up by scooping one arm up behind his back, taking his hand with the other. He led, of course, as Jon was still a bit stunned, but what stunned him more was how easily he fell into a waltz considering how long it had been since he’d waltzed with anyone. Not since he’d been Georgie’s betrothed. This thought caused him to steal a wary glance at Georgie.

But Georgie was smiling brightly at him and Tim, having finished pitching the tents. She turned to Melanie and, taking her wife by the hand, pulled her into the night song dance as well, laughing. 

Jon looked back up into Tim’s eyes and he couldn’t help but smile at how ridiculous, how wonderful this all was. “You’re very strange, you know that?”

“I know,” Tim said, his feet moving slowly in time with the birds. “So are you.”

“I know,” Jon agreed. He sighed, and allowed his head to rest against Tim’s chest while they swayed together. Thoughts settled heavily and uncomfortably in Jon’s mind while he listened to the rhythm of Tim’s heart. “Why me?” he said softly.

“Why not,” Tim said, and gave Jon a little twirl.   


Jon sighed and landed back in Tim’s arms. “Don’t joke. You were so angry at me. But you chose me all the same. You care for me. Why.”

Tim set his jaw and glanced aside but his dance did not miss a step. “You didn’t have to save me, when I went to the tower, but you did,” he said. “Everything I had and almost everyone I loved was stolen from me in one fell swoop but you, a stranger, cared enough to make sure I didn’t lose myself too when I was too bullheaded to see the danger I was in.”

Gingerly, Jon reached up and turned Tim’s face to see him again, his clawtips resting lightly on his jawline. “Isn’t it strange and wonderful when people care for you and you don’t know why.”

“It really is,” whispered Tim, and he stooped down to steal another kiss.

***

Martin sat on his log by the fire, hugging his knees and watching Tim and Jon dance together, watching them stare into each other’s eyes, watching them kiss. He wondered how he got so lucky, to be able to call both of these remarkable people his. To know who would be king by his side when Peter was out of the way. To know who would be by their side when they rebuilt their kingdoms together.

Admittedly, the idea of there being another was a bit of a thorn in Martin’s side. Tim was fine, because he and Jon shared Tim together, the three of them as one. This other, this Gerry… there was a wretched and petty little part of Martin that found itself glad, quite glad indeed, that this other man was apart from Jon. That they were separated, this other man locked up in a tower somewhere where he couldn’t step between Jon and Martin and Tim, couldn’t disrupt what they had together. He had half a mind to leave him up there so the three of them could keep their equilibrium, so Jon couldn’t realize someday that maybe he’d had it better with Gerry all along, and leave him. So that Gerry couldn’t perhaps seduce Tim away from him too, that mysterious stranger.

But the guilt set in as soon as the jealousy had time to settle. How terrible a thing to think. Jon had risked and sacrificed so much for Martin’s safety and happiness, and for Tim’s too. One of the things he’d risked for Martin’s sake had been his connection with this Gerry. Now Martin was spitefully glad of it? Was he any better than the people who wanted to hurt them when he thought that way?

A plan began turning in Martin’s mind before he realized what he was planning. A conviction set in his heart. He told Jon he would do whatever it took to secure his happiness, and he meant it. Besides, Jon had that wretched tendency to try to offer up his own life for those he loved, and if he loved this Gerry, if this Gerry was in danger.

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispered, watching Tim and Jon delight in each other from afar. “I am going to make such a hypocrite of myself tonight.”

Martin took his blade by the hilt, he took his pack. While the others danced and made merry, or settled in for the night, Martin crept away unnoticed. He was always good at going unnoticed. But he didn’t leave without a word, not exactly.

By the time someone finally realized he had gone, they would find the note he’d left, weighed down by a rock by the firepit.

_ “I am going to take the risk so you don’t have to, Jon. I will return. I love you both.” _

He would return. Unlike Jon, Martin had no intention of sacrificing himself. He would see everyone through this, alive and well. Was that really so much to ask?


	19. XIX: True Love's Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is I've been waiting to write this chapter since the beginning.

It was still dark, if barely, when Martin arrived at the foot of the Mage’s Tower. Its shadow was drawn out long under the moon, stretched agonizingly thin, while the Tower itself stood tall and proud and aloof against the barren landscape. Even the building itself held a smug air of superiority. Martin hated it. He’d never hated a tower before, but he hated this one, to be sure. Ideally, though, he would be in and out as fast as possible.

Fortunately, he had crept a perimeter about the tower and found all the windows dark and no signs of movement. If the mage was home he was likely still asleep. From a bag on his hip he withdrew a set of lockpicking tools that he’d swiped from Jon’s pack, the selfsame tools which had freed him from prison not even a full day ago now. And to think, how far he’d traveled in that time. His body was weary for want of sleep, but this had to be done before daybreak. Fortunately, Martin was an expert in not being noticed.

He slid up to the door, pressed an ear to the wood. Satisfied that he heard no movement beyond it, Martin set to picking. The doors were old indeed, and the locks gave much more easily than he expected. He opened the door just a crack and peeked around. There was a small landing here, and a storage area, and then the stairs spiraled upward. Martin nodded once, with determination, and began to tiptoe upward.

***

_“I am going to take the risk so you don’t have to, Jon. I will return. I love you both.”_

Jon’s voice was strained to the breaking point as he read the note aloud, and his hands shook to hold it. Martin. Martin, what had he done? The paper drifted softly to the ground as Jon clasped both his hands over his mouth to hold the terror in.

“I can’t take my eyes off of either of you for a second!” snapped Tim.

Basira muttered, “Says the man who wants to run off to pick fights with fairies.”

“Hey at least I came looking for backup,” said Tim.

Jon sank, his legs weak, to sit on the log by the dwindling fire. Tim came to kneel beside him, slid an arm around his shoulders to support him, but Jon felt so far away.

“What does it _mean_?” pressed Melanie, picking up the note for herself to review it. 

“My fault,” Jon choked out. “I told him about my other love, and the danger he’s in. I told him, and now he’s gone off to my ma-- to the Mage Magnus.” 

A troubled hush fell among the others, except from Melanie, who quietly muttered, “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

Jon paused to take a deep breath to try to steady himself. It didn’t work. “It’s my fault. He knew, and he didn’t trust me to… to…” And why should Martin trust? What reason had Jon ever given Martin to trust that he wouldn’t destroy himself to protect the ones he loved? What else was Martin meant to think? And now he was naive enough to think… what? That he could just walk in and _take_ Gerry? From under Jonah’s nose?

“It’s not your fault,” said Tim, who laid a kiss on Jon’s temple. This did more to steady Jon than any of his own efforts. “He made his own fool decision.”

“Does anyone know how long ago he left?” Georgie ventured. She was already reaching for the polearm she used as a walking stick. “Maybe we can still catch up to him.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Jon held onto his head in desperation. “We can’t… if we all go after him at once it’ll be too obvious to Jonah, if he’s not noticed already. I’m going after Martin, but I won’t take more than a couple with me.”

“Well I’m damn well not letting you go without me,” said Tim. “You two are both too important to me not to be there.”

“That’s all well and good,” said Melanie, fiddling with one of her daggers, “but I can’t help but feel you two reckless bastards need a babysitter. Someone to watch your back when it all _inevitably_ goes wrong.”

At the back of the group, her arms wrapped around herself, Daisy piped up, “I’ll do it.”

“Excuse me?” said Georgie, looking quite affronted.

Melanie laughed so sharp and harsh one could skin themself on it. “Oh yeah, great idea! Take the would-be assassin along with you to finish the job on the way. Eager to collect your payment from the so-called king, are you?”

Basira ventured, “If you need someone to vouch for her--”

“I don’t.” Jon cut her off. He nodded once to Daisy. “I accept. She can be our third.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Georgie repeated her prior statement, eyes wide in bewildered outrage. 

Jon looked the hunter up and down, the one who had, just the previous evening, attempted to tear him apart. He saw how sullen and tired she was now. It was a weariness he knew all too well. “She’s like me. She knows the wood. She knows magic and its dangers. She’s a monster too. And I need a monster at my side to defend against a monster.”

At Jon’s approval, Tim peeled from his side. Melanie and Georgie stepped aside for him as he advanced on Daisy, drawing his sword ever so slightly from its scabbard to reveal the glint of hungry live steel against the firelight. “You can come, but I swear to you, the second you make even the hint of a threat towards Jon, towards any of us…”

To her credit, Daisy did not budge an inch. “You’ll kill me, I understand. I expect nothing less, and I hope you strike true if you do, dear Prince.” Her affect was flat but her eyes were piercing sharp.

Tim glowered and settled his sword back into place. “Oh, I promise.” He returned to Jon’s side then and took his hand, fingers knitted together without concern for the claws. “I’m sure you know the way.”

“I do,” Jon agreed, miserably. His mind was clouded with wretched images, a haze of years of horrors Jonah had visited upon him and so many others. Which would he do to Martin for his intrusion? Jon could only pray to gods he no longer believed in that he was not already too late.

***

With each step Martin took, he paused to listen. The tower was achingly silent, still as the dead. This should be a reassuring sign, but it made Martin feel cold down to the bones. No place should be so hollow. It was lived in, yet it felt vacant all the same. There was not the love and joy of family or friendship here. There was not the warmth and peace of home. It was a dungeon, a crypt. It had all the welcoming presence of a pit, only it reached grotesquely upward into the pre-dawn sky. 

Once, about halfway up, Martin thought he heard the shuffle of movement. In terror he froze, and gripped the hilt of his sword tight. But only silence followed through. Perhaps it was a rat? After a moment or two of stillness, Martin allowed himself to breathe once more and continued his progress.

He wondered if it should concern him that he sensed no trace of Jon’s companion either. Yet, Jon had said the man was trapped in a mirror, did he not? Martin supposed it only made sense for him to be silent.

Finally Martin’s gentle, cautious footfalls brought him up to the final landing. Here, there was a forest green door which stood out from all the other oaken ones. This, Martin assumed, was probably the right place. Jon had spoken of having a room locked away at the top of the tower, so this must be it. Martin knelt down and squinted through the keyhole. It was hard to make out much, but he could see hay scattered about on the floor, and what seemed to be the frame of a mirror on the wall. Yes, that must be Jon’s Gerry. Martin’s heart skipped a beat. He was so close. He nipped his lip and, experimentally, tried the door, but of course it was locked. So into his bag he went again for his--well, Jon’s--trusty lockpicking tools. He set to work fiddling with the old lock, his breath shallow in concentration. This one seemed more stubborn than the last, though. No matter which way he turned the pick, it simply refused to budge.

Then he refused to budge.

Martin blinked. He felt himself trying to move, he felt the impulse rolling through his body, but his arms and hands were stuck in place.

“You don’t think Jon’s the only one who can paralyze others, do you?” the voice behind him whispered.

Locked in place, Martin felt his heart nonetheless frantically beating itself against his ribs. 

“On the contrary, I don’t even need you to see me to do it. You know that feeling? When you know you’re being watched, though you can’t say by what or who? When every fragment of your body is crying out with the animal instinct to run, but you cannot translate the thought to your limbs? That is the power I wield. That is the gift that is given to me. Jon is but a tool of our lord and master, but I am its servant and its chosen. And you, you are so far from home, dear prince.” A hand lay itself on the small of Martin’s back, and when the voice spoke again, the voice of the Mage Magnus, it whispered right in its ear. “Now be a good boy and come along with me.”

There was magic in his speech, a terrible compulsion. Martin rose shakily to his feet, and though he strained to hold back, he helplessly stumbled along beside the mage back down the stairs. A single sob escaped his throat, also unwillingly. Stupid, how stupid could he have been. He only wanted to help Jon, and to protect him from himself. Now he was going to put all of them in danger. 

Martin honestly didn’t know what he was expecting. He’d pictured the Mage Magnus as this huge and imposing figure, broad and towering, with wild dark hair and a wizened face and piercing bright eyes. Yet he was slight and lean, with light curly hair, a bounce in his step and eyes that would be warm if there were anything but malice behind them. He also looked much, much younger than Martin felt he should. The persistent youth of a man living on stolen time. He brought Martin a couple floors down and into a room crowded with shelves of tools and jars. There was a cauldron here, and a chair beside it. “ _Sit_ ,” Jonah spoke, and Martin did so regardless of his will. Ropes wound up on their own to bind him. Jonah’s telepathic hold on Martin released, but that no longer mattered. He was stuck.

“I… I’m sorry?” Martin tried.

“No you’re not,” Jonah said, smiling back at him over his shoulder. “Not yet.” He sighed and returned his attention to the shelves, rummaging around among them. “Dear me, dear me, what to do with you.”

Martin tried to pull at his arms, but they were tied tight. Hurt a bit, in fact. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say or do to change your mind.” Martin even tried a timid smile that Jonah would not turn around to see.

“No, I don’t suppose there is. Hm, this is a possibility.” He reached deep onto the shelf and pulled out a crystal decanter. “You see this? This was my old friend Dr. Fanshawe.” He swirled the liquid around a bit. “One of my apprentices, actually. I had wanted him for a familiar, but I could tell he wasn’t up to it, so I simply had to find another use for him.” He pointed the neck of the bottle at Martin. “Perhaps you could make a fine vessel too? I could make Jon drink from you and imagine he was still kissing your lips.”

Martin trembled, struggling a bit harder. The ropes were coarse and bit at his skin.

“Ah, or this!” The Mage Magnus set the bottle aside, only to take up a little taxidermied songbird. “This was dear Samson. A mutual acquaintance of my last apprentice and I. He tried to meddle, you see, and I felt, since he thought to speak prying words to my Robert, I should let him sing instead. He sang beautifully for want of screaming. Such a shame nightingales have much, much shorter lives than humans, don’t you think?” He smiled fondly at the tiny creature, then placed it back on the shelf. “Maybe you could make a fun little pet for Jon when I bring him home, since he so insists upon keeping you.”

“Please leave him out of this,” Martin said, his voice frail as he went slack in the chair, all his struggling in vain. His arms ached so. 

“Oh! But you’ve involved him yourself!” Jonah pressed a hand to his chest and fluttered his lashes in a mockery of surprise. “You are the one who kept sticking your nose where it didn’t belong. Don’t think that I didn’t know. I was simply curious to see how far it would really go. Hmm…” He returned to his shelves and from here he plucked up a ritual dagger. “Something like this, perhaps?” he said. He traced Martin’s outline darkly with his eyes. “You soft, tender thing. You, who worries so much for others, who cares so much. I could make you something made only to hurt. I could draw Jon’s blood with you and it would be the only time you were ever allowed to touch him.”

Martin hung his head and his tears fell to his thighs. He wished he could just have a chance to tell Jon how sorry he was, to tell Tim, tell everyone. What was going to happen to his people.

It was with that selfsame blade that Jonah tipped Martin’s head up, its tip tucked under his chin, to get a good look at his face. Jonah squinted down the dagger at Martin’s misery. “But no,” he said. “Far be it from me to do Peter’s work for him.”

There was a foolish little hope that lit in Martin’s eyes. “S-so will you let me go then?”

“Do you know? I think I will,” said Jonah. There was a flicker of amusement in his face. He withdrew the dagger and stepped back. “But not without taking my recompense. Now then…”

Martin wanted to be reassured. He was going to be allowed to live. He was going to be set free. That was good, right? Surely he could handle whatever injury or grotesque mutation that Jonah wished to inflict upon him? His beloved had wings, jet black eyes, and claws, and yet he was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever known.

Jonah took a small vial from the shelf, full of a reddish liquid, and swirled it. “Hm. Do you know, I used the same roses and gardenia that I _know_ you gave Jon for this. Isn’t that funny? Plus, a bit of gorgon’s blood, siren’s tears, the powdered bones of a trumpeter swan… well, I musn’t give away all my secrets.” He winked. In a few long strides he crossed the room to Martin and gripped his jaw tight in hand, tipping his head back. Martin tried to clench his teeth and press his lips shut tight, but no matter how hard he tried, it was futile. Jonah uncorked the vial with his thumb and pressed it against Martin’s lips. It didn’t all get into his mouth, but it was enough. 

It was somehow sweet and foul all at once, and terribly salty. The harshness of it stung at the back of his throat and unsettled his stomach. The most troubling thing of it though was the sudden, keen awareness of the space around him. Martin could feel an indescribable ache and pull across every inch of his skin. It was the feeling he felt every time he saw Jon and Tim from a distance. “What have you done?” Martin breathed as Jonah pulled away.

“Only a mild curse, my dear, nothing you can’t live with.” He shrugged, and cast the vial aside.

Martin’s eyes narrowed The other effects subsided, but that ache persisted. An ever-present absence like a phantom limb. “What have you _done?_ ” he echoed.

Jonah wore his smile subtly, but with pride. “From this point forth,” he said, “no one who loves you may touch you ever again. Not as a lover, not as a friend, not even as a _regent_ . Should such a person, a person who cares for you, so much as graze against you, it will _kill_ them. They won’t suffer, mind you! It will be quite instantaneous, if that makes you feel better. But I’d keep a wide berth if I were you. Fortunately for you, I’ve no love in my heart for you, so…” He reached out and untied Martin’s bonds.

In jagged and unyielding shock, Martin stared at Jonah, remaining still stuck to his seat all the same. To never be held, to never be touched, ever again in kindness. To never know the affection in the hand of a loved one. Now Martin knew why the air felt so empty around him now. And why it always would. He opened his mouth to decry the injustice but could not find the words to speak. This injury was so far beyond what he could have imagined.

“Now, I am not a complete monster,” Jonah protested, leaning back against a worktable. He picked up a pestle and idly tapped at the wood with it. “There is, of course, a way you can break the curse if you really find this punishment so unbearable. You see, if someone who you love dearly, knowing what will happen to them, accepts their fate and kisses you anyway? The spell will be broken at once.” A smirk spread across Jonah’s face, slow as molasses, and just as sickeningly sweet. “But I wouldn’t tell Jon that if I were you. You know how he gets.”

Martin had found his way to his feet but he couldn’t fathom how, he was shaking so badly. He could never know. Jon could never know. No one could ever know. He would not let anyone pay that price for him. Not a soul.

Jonah came face to face with Martin and patted his cheek ever so gently. “And that is what you get for meddling in what is _mine_ ,” he growled, still smiling all the same. “I would tell you to get out of my sight, but no one ever truly is. Still, best be off. Your partners are on their way with their little guard dog, and I think you should be out of here before they do something foolish, like take your hand to pull you away from me.” He fluttered his fingers to wave goodbye, and turned his back, going to fix up the shelves he’d rearranged. “Ta ta!”

It wasn’t clear to Martin how he made it back onto the plains, treading across the dry and dusty ground. He was aware of himself only from outside of himself, from afar. He must have walked, he thought, though he had no recollection of doing so. That wasn’t the magic talking though, he was sure. It was the agony.

Over the horizon, at the edge of the Blackwood, he saw them. Jon and Tim, held tight to each other, and the wolf at their side. Martin felt a burning pang of jealousy, seeing their hands together.

Then they saw him. He was sure he heard Tim call his name, perhaps in joy? Relief? Jon only let out a strangled cry that wanted to be Martin’s name. On sight, Jon relinquished Tim and came running, and he was always so spry on his feet. One hand was already outstretched for want of pulling Martin close to him.

He was so far off, meters away, and yet Martin still staggered back from his approach. His awareness came crashing back into him like diving into an ice cold ocean, and it was just as heavy and just as painful. “Stay back!” he yelped.

Startled, Jon, and Tim just behind him, stopped dead in their tracks. “Martin?” Jon called out, uncertainly. “Martin, it’s me. It’s us. You’re safe now.”

“It’s alright, my love,” said Tim. “We’re here.”

They were here. So close, and so far away. Martin’s feet finally gave out and he crumpled to the ground, weeping. In his longing and mourning, he held himself tight, because no one else could. Maybe he wouldn’t even have been able to do that, had he loved himself.


	20. XX: The Pledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! You may notice the total chapter count has gone up by one. That's because there was so much going on in this chapter I wound up having to split it in half. Adapt, Survive, Overcome!
> 
> Also, in the name of COMPLETE transparency, there was... a small error in the previous chapter that none of you will have noticed. But I did go back and fix it a couple days after release. (cough). You don't have to go back and reread it or anything. I only had to change a couple words, but they were a vital couple of words. Anyway if any of you are particularly good at remembering exact wording, and if you see something in the chapters going forward that makes you think "wait a minute"... just know that was my bad. If you DON'T notice a problem... cool! Great! It's fine! Don't worry about it!
> 
> I thought about not mentioning it at all, but I didn't want anyone to feel confused if they DID remember the old wording.

Before, the camp had not seemed quite so vast, so wide. How the distance before Martin stretched out, with him sitting to one side of the burnt-out fire, with everyone else to the other. He had laid curled up tight in his tent through the dawn hours, where he’d not so much slept as lost consciousness. He was weary and unrested, and everyone was so far away. That was for the best. That was safe. But how cold and alone he felt in the shadows of the Blackwood, far from the people he loved. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared at them while they stared back at him.

“What were you thinking!?” Tim snapped. He’d led Martin and the others back in a haughty silence, but his silence would no longer hold. “After all the talks we’ve had to have with Jon, you run off and do this! Why didn’t you talk to someone? And don’t you dare say, ‘because we’d tell you not to’, because then you damn well know you shouldn’t have.”

Martin hugged his legs just a little tighter. “I was afraid if I talked to you about it, Jon would try to do it himself.” 

Jon was staring down at his own tattered boots, sullen and slumped. At those words, he cringed and drew his wings in tighter.

“Don’t blame your bad decisions on him!” Tim said. “If you’ve ever listened to a word he’s said, you know how dangerous that tower is, how dangerous the Mage Magnus is! All of his own bad decisions were in  _ your _ defense, and you were just going to throw every risk he took away by walking straight into the mouth of the beast!”

“I never wanted this for you,” Jon said, weakly, voice fragile as late spring ice. It hurt Martin to hear more than Tim’s admonishments.

“I’m sorry,” Martin said, pushing back his tears. “I just… I wanted to help… and I thought I could…”

“I’m not sure you did think,” Tim spat. Martin flinched at his words.

“Okay, okay,” Georgie interjected. She held her hand out as though to place it on Martin’s shoulder, but from yards away. “I think he’s had enough. He’s already suffered for his mistakes.”

Jon looked up at Tim, reached to take his hand. “He needs us now,” he said.

Martin stared intently at their intertwined fingers. 

At Jon’s touch, Tim visibly relaxed, though his jaw was still tight. He took a few deep breaths and said, “Right. You’ve learned your lesson. But  _ talk _ to us next time. Please.”

“Do you still want me?” Martin ventured, digging his fingers into his sleeves. “Even if I can’t touch you?”

“Of course, you idiot,” Tim scoffed. “You’re more to me than something I can touch. You’re…” He hesitated, and the facade of hardness and ire crumbled away to reveal a softer expression underneath. “You’re my sweet prince, Martin.”

“I’ve never needed much,” Jon said with a sad smile and a shrug. “Another of the dearest people in my life can’t hold me either. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

Basira, who was leaning against a tree off to the side, straightened up. “Right, if you’re done with your lovers’ quarrel, I think we should talk strategy.”

“Jonah needs to die,” Tim growled, squeezing Jon’s hand tight. “As soon as possible.”

“I hope you understand killing him won’t break any of the curses he’s cast,” Basira said. 

Tim laughed bitterly. “I don’t care!”

Martin’s shoulders sank.  _ He’d _ been rather hoping that would work. Of course, that would be too good to be true, to be able to side-step his terrible cure.

“I don’t suppose he mentioned anything to you about how to break it?” asked Basira.

“No,” Martin lied.

Basira sighed and tipped her head back. “Of course not. Well… I still have to agree with Tim on one level, we need to work on the Jonah Magnus problem. We’re pinned between two enemies right now, and while I haven’t got a good solution for King Peter just yet, I at least have a lead on Magnus. The sooner we at least weaken one of them the better. It’ll be no good trying to cure Martin’s curse if he just attacks one of us again right after. Besides, I have reason to believe he’s hoarding magical knowledge at his tower. The answer might be there.”

“You were going to try to break his pact, right?” Jon asked, and how his voice quivered when he suggested it. 

“Do you want to be with us when we do?” asked Tim, rubbing the back of Jon’s hand with his thumb.

Martin scowled and looked away, feeling a sharp little pang in his chest.

Jon glanced back and forth between the two of them. “I think at one point I would have said, ‘more than anything.’ But right now? I… want to be here. I want to stay behind and look after Martin. He’s vulnerable. He needs someone at his side.”

At that, Martin turned to face him again, choked up and flushed, ashamed at his little fits of jealousy. “Jon… Jon, it’s the man who ruined your life. It’s--”

“And destroying the pact won’t kill him, not yet,” said Jon. “It will simply… make it possible to. For now, I’d rather look after one of the loves of my life.”

“You’ll need a guard,” Daisy ventured. She was seated far off to the side on a stump, whittling spears with a pocket knife. “Both of you are targets. Both of you are in danger. I’ll stay too.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “ _ Why _ are you suddenly so eager to play bodyguard? Maybe I don’t want you to stay here with my partners without someone to keep an eye on  _ you! _ ” 

“Tim, if she wants to help, I want to let her,” Jon said. 

“Is that you talking or your death wish?” Tim demanded with a roll of his eyes.

“I do  _ not _ have a death wish!” Jon insisted. He let go of Tim’s hand and rose to his feet. 

Scoffing, Tim turned to Basira. “You say the wolf can be trusted?”

“She can.”

Tim glanced back over his shoulder. “And how do you know that for sure? You lost track of her for years. You said yourself she’s a killer.”

With a voice so calm and measured it could cut glass, Basira said, “Because when you have a real connection with someone, you just know these things.” She didn’t look past Tim so much as through him, at Daisy, who met her eyes over his shoulder and gave her one solemn nod.

“Fine, you’ve made your point,” Tim grumbled. He gently touched the back of Jon’s hand, caressed his wrist with his fingertips. “I’m sorry.”

“You… needn’t apologize,” Jon said, watching the movements of Tim’s fingers over his skin. “I’ve frightened and upset you so many times. I gave you every reason to believe as you have.” 

The guilt in Martin boiled up further, the secret he was hiding from them, the trust he could not place. Yet history told him, and he knew, if Jon knew the answer, if Jon knew how to set Martin free from his pain, well…

If their positions were reversed, even Martin wasn’t sure he wouldn’t do the same for him.

Getting up on his tiptoes to lay a quick kiss on Tim’s temple, Jon asked to be excused. He gave Martin a smile as he passed before going to pull Daisy aside. The others huddled to discuss their travel plans. This, Martin thought, was a chance to open up, if just a bit. To let the burden off his chest that made it so hard to breathe.

“According to my research,” said Basira, stabbing a map of the Blackwood and borderlands up onto a tree so all could see, “the earliest mentions of the Mage Magnus and his powers go as far back as the year 1 AFQ. It’s around this time he took over my order. I  _ believe _ the formation of his pact coincides with this. Now, Magnus isn’t fool enough to keep the pact at his tower, but he would keep it somewhere meaningful to him. Somewhere easy for him to get to, but hard for others. I ruled out the library at Green Arches, it’s too public. Even if the pact were well or magically hidden, the chances of someone finding it accidentally are too high. So I started looking at locations with heavy magical fortification where I believe there  _ used _ to be branches of the Order. I considered the Spiders’ Den, but that village was vacated far too recently, and besides, according to you lot the spiders have now moved on, leaving the location unguarded. Which brings me to my next most likely location.” She tapped at a circle at the center of the map. “Exactly one of my old texts makes reference to a library branch within the Blackwood itself. It was likely lost early after the change in the calendar. What remains is a pond called the Reflecting Pool, a place of intense magical energy. I suspect--”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Martin said softly, unable to wait any longer. He glanced back to make sure Jon was still occupied talking to Daisy, then turned back to the others. “I want to talk to you all.”

Tim, instinctively, started to reach for Martin before withdrawing his hand. “What is it, love? You need something?”

“Um… I wasn’t entirely…” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I lied earlier. I know. I know how to break it, that is. Assuming he was telling the truth and I… I think he was.”

“This isn’t going to be good,” Melanie ventured.

“He said someone I love has to kiss me,” Martin said, keeping his voice as low as he could. Fumbling, he wiped at the corners of his eyes. “They have to kiss me, knowing what will happen to them if they do.”

There was a brief hush, silent except for Melanie hissing through her teeth. 

“I don’t know if he  _ wants _ me to get rid of Jon for him, or if he just… wants to hurt us,” said Martin. Anxiously he wrang his hands, hoping to squeeze the fear out of himself, but it wouldn’t run. “But I can’t… you know I can’t tell him.”

“I know,” Tim said with a sigh. He ran his palm down his face. “Shit.”

Basira crossed her arms and frowned in contemplation. “You don’t remember his  _ exact _ wording, do you? Magic is very precise, but it’s also strongly influenced by perception and interpretation. Sometimes there are… loopholes in the logic.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said. “I was… I wasn’t fully in my own head at the time.” He nipped his lip in miserable contemplation. “You don’t suppose… Jon has told me a few times that the only way to kill him is to stab him through the heart or something so… if he tried it, do you think he might survive it?”

“A curse will override any rule like that,” said Basira. “Unfortunately. It’s why people will often curse or bless their weapons to fight monsters that otherwise have few weaknesses.”

At a glance, Martin caught sight of Tim contemplatively eyeing his own sword. Having torn his gaze from it, Tim looked back to Martin. Or rather, he looked to Martin’s hands, which were clad in sturdy leather gloves. “You don’t suppose… does it have to be skin-to-skin contact to kill me, or…?”

“I’m not sure, and I’d rather not find out the hard way,” Martin said, folding his hands together. “Sorry, love.”

Tim offered him up an encouraging smile all the same. “Well… would you toss one of those to me anyway, darling?”

Confused, Martin slowly slid off his right hand glove. “Sure?” From what felt like a safe distance he tossed the glove to Tim, who caught it easily.

With glove in hand, Tim turned it about, held it around the middle gently as though he were holding Martin’s own hand. He even rubbed the back of it slightly. “I’ll find a way to set you free, my love, I promise,” he said. “Just as soon as we set Jon free too.” Bending down, he kissed each of the glove’s fingers individually before tossing it back to its owner.

Martin fumbled to catch it. He felt his love welling up inside him and it took up so much room inside him that it was no longer possible to keep the tears in. Rather than put the glove back on, he simply held it to his chest, pressed it to his own beating heart. “And we’ll free your country too.”

“Damn right we will,” Tim said. 

That was when Martin felt a hand upon his shoulder.

He screamed, dropping the glove, and turned on his heel, trying and failing to brace for the worst, to see who might have fallen. 

But behind him stood Daisy, who only shrugged at his alarm. “Relax,” she said, “I don’t know you well enough yet to care about you.”

Struggling to catch his breath, Martin clutched at his chest and throat. “Still, warn me!” he yelped. “As you can imagine, I’m  _ just a little _ on edge!” As he started to steady, he got a good look at Daisy, as though seeing her for the first time. “Hang on a second, weren’t you a guard for my family?”

“You don’t have to care about someone to guard them,” Daisy ventured. “And actually, it’s precisely because I don’t care that Jon asked me to give you this.” With that, she stepped forward and pulled Martin into her arms, squeezing him tight.

At first, Martin just went slack in her grip in bafflement at it all. Then he saw Jon across the camp, gazing at him hopefully. His scarred and slender hands were folded together and his dark eyes were full of longing and love and the barest glints of midday light that could pierce the canopy. At that Martin gave him a sad smile back and returned Daisy’s hug, imagining Jon’s arms around him, his claws against his back. He swore he could almost feel him there instead.

Maybe it didn’t all have to be so bad. Maybe they could get through what had happened to him, together.

Even if he did still feel so far away.

Soon enough, the traveling party gathered up their things and struck out. Martin blew a kiss to Tim, who caught and returned it before going to slide an arm around Jon’s waist and gather him up for a kiss as well.

Daisy strode up to Basira, her stance rigid and awkward. She crossed and uncrossed her arms, unsure of what to do with her hands. “Hey, um… I just wanted to… well, be careful out there.”

“I always am,” Basira said, strapping her bow to her back. She paused as she gathered up the quiver. “...but you too. I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daisy muttered. She lingered at Basira’s side a few moments longer before going to check the perimeter.

“You two look after yourselves and after each other while we’re gone, alright,” Georgie said, planting her polearm firmly in the ground and taking Melanie’s hand with the other.

“If either of you get killed I’m going to kill you,” Melanie added.

“Helpful, thanks,” said Martin, but found himself grinning despite everything.

Basira cut through the camp with a sharp whistle. “Alright away team, let’s head out. Northward, with me.” She led the way, and the others fell in line behind her. Tim took up the rear, letting go of Jon only when he absolutely had to, and even his hand lingered on Jon’s arm until he was completely out of reach. 

Martin reached, too, from afar.

Finally, they were alone.

Jon nodded toward the logs. “Sit with me?” he said, so softly.

Martin nodded. He took a seat opposite him. “You really didn’t have to, you know,” he said. “I want you to have your justice against him.”

“I will, someday,” Jon said. He let his legs stretch out, folded his hands neatly in his lap. Unburdened here, he let out a long, wavering breath. “I… heard you.”

There was a cold that shot through all of Martin’s tendons and locked them in place. “What?”

“I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t spying, but I finished asking my favor of Daisy and I… I overheard. What the cure is, and that you didn’t want me to know.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck. 

Martin kept his eyes trained on Jon, watching for any sudden movement. “I…”

“I just want you to know that I understand,” Jon said. “I know why you wouldn’t want you to tell me. I know how I’ve behaved.” He leaned in closer, but not too close at all. “But I want to make you a promise. For some reason, you’ve all decided to care about me. So I’ve no intention of hurting you like that, or Tim, or any of the others, or abandoning Gerry before we can see each other again. If Jonah wants you to kill me for him? To every one of the hells with him, I’m going to live, and we’re going to be happy.” His voice hitched, getting caught in his throat, and he flicked at the corner of his eye with a knuckle. “I want to be with you. As long as I possibly can. I will not rob you of your happiness the way all these people are so determined to do.”

“Jon,” Martin sighed. There was a scale inside him, teetering between guilt at having not trusted him and a tender affection at this man he had chosen to give his heart to. Fortunately, after all the pain he had suffered lately, it wound up falling to favor the affectionate side. “Thank you. For understanding. I love you, and I do trust you, I swear. I didn’t… decide anything, really. I couldn’t help but care about you. You’ve been looking out for me since before we really knew each other. If I trusted you  _ enough _ I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this mess.”

“ _ Jonah _ got you into this mess,” Jon said firmly. “And the people who love you will get you out.”


	21. XXI: The Changeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad I decided to break this chapter up because even after splitting it in half, this is, I BELIEVE, my longest chapter yet.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (Would you believe I used the phrase "wretched gaze" subconsciously? No? Okay then.)

It was a long hard trek through deep and tangled forest before the team reached the Reflecting Pool. They might have been there earlier, but they were briefly waylaid by a cockatrice which Melanie had deftly beheaded with naught but her two daggers before its wretched gaze could do any harm. Tim kept loudly insisting to each and every one of them that he had it handled. He had not.

It was a stunning sight to behold, unnaturally circular, crystal clear and yet almost silvery, perfectly reflecting back the canopy above. It made a tunnel of the world. You felt like you could fall into it forever, looking in.

“Do  _ not _ fall into it,” Basira said. “I  _ cannot _ stress that enough.”

“I’m guessing you mean it’ll do worse than make you wet,” Melanie said, eyeing the water’s edge.

Basira wandered about the pool at a modest distance, gathering up the longest branches she could find. “You can get splashed, that’s fine, but don’t go in. The magic here is intense, but in the water itself, even more so. You notice how there’s no fish, no frogs, no insects? No mundane creature can break its surface. It  _ will _ kill you, so keep a distance.”

“Then why the hell didn’t we bring Jon or the wolf!” Tim barked as he was tossed a branch. 

“Because they said they didn’t want to come,” Basira said with a shrug. She checked one of the branches against Georgie’s polearm and, satisfied, left her to work with that. “They’re responsible for their own choices.”

Tim sighed deeply, wringing the branch in his hands in frustration. “We could have, you know,  _ emphasized _ …”

“Martin interrupted us and I got distracted,” Basira said calmly. “Anyway, if the first steps don’t work, we can go back for them. First, we’re just going to try combing the waters a bit, see if we can get a feel of how deep it goes, if there’s anything that seems foreign under the surface.”

“So… just kinda poke around a bit,” Melanie said skeptically, balancing the branch in her hand.

“Do you have a better idea right now?” asked Basira.

“Yeah! Go back for the wolf!” Tim said. He jabbed at the water, and felt the soft of sodden soil beneath, as expected. 

“Things are… complicated with Daisy right now,” Basira said. She gave a few careful prods, charting the depths methodically. “I didn’t want to bring Martin, considering his condition, it wasn’t safe to have him close and it wasn’t safe to let him trail behind. And Jon was determined to stay with him.”

“Alright, well… if that’s what we’ve got right now, let’s try it,” Georgie offered. She kissed Melanie’s cheek and fanned out around the other side of the shore to cover more ground.

Tim sighed. He checked along the edge some more. Something gave him resistance, but of course when he scraped it in closer, it was only a rock. “You’re a very smart woman, Basira,” he said, “but I can’t help but feel like you decided to bring us out here  _ before _ you made a plan and we’re about to learn almost nothing.”

“We’re going to chart the depth,” Basira insisted. “If the pool stays shallow throughout, it’s unlikely to be our location.”

“ _ Right _ .” Tim surveyed the water’s surface. It was big for a pond, almost a lake. Their branches wouldn’t be able to chart very far in. They’d need a boat to get out far enough to test the very center, but it was likely profoundly unsafe for any of them to get that up close and personal with it. 

That was when Tim started looking up for answers. Not to the heavens per se. The Blackwood was called so for a reason, after all. Its dark and ancient trees grew in close to each other. Even over the surface of the Reflecting Pool they arched out to form a roof over it and block as much of the sun’s persistent rays as they could.

One of them even looked like it could bear Tim’s weight.

With the others preoccupied with their methodical jabs, they paid no mind to Tim shimmying up the bark of some gnarled old oak, his branch tied to his back. He pushed at the limb when he got up high enough and it failed to yield, so he continued to carefully climb out along its length over the waters, slow and steady. Once he was as far out as he could manage, he cautiously began to withdraw the branch from his back.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you idiot!” Melanie shouted up at him.

“A shortcut!” Tim insisted. He reached out below himself with the branch, poking at the water. He couldn’t feel the bottom, so he leaned a little further forward. It was definitely deeper out here, that was for sure. But how much?

“Tim, get  _ back _ here!” Georgie called from the other side. “This isn’t safe and you know it!”

“I’m not here to fuck around!” Tim insisted. “I am going!” Jab. “To get!” Jab. “Us answers!” He jabbed the branch a little further and still couldn’t reach bottom, so he shifted his grip until he was only holding it by the very end. Maybe this, maybe now. 

That was when the limb underneath him rattled unexpectedly. 

The branch in his hand fell.

Startled, Tim’s grip slipped from the bough.

Melanie screamed his name and it echoed between the trees.

It wasn’t far to fall, but it felt so long. 

Tim remembered his mother’s patient gaze, his brother’s smiling face. Tim remembered the many rivers and emerald hills of a home he’d never see again. He thought of Martin’s soft and tender affection, Jon’s steady and protective love. Maybe they would finish what he couldn’t for him.

The water was the coldest thing Tim had ever felt as it swallowed him up.

***

“Do you think they’re doing alright?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re just fine,” said Jon. “The last I was aware of their whereabouts, they’d made it to the Reflecting Pool.” He moved about the edge of camp gathering kindling, snapping branches off of gnarled and dead trees. Daisy was doing her part by chopping some logs, as Jon and Martin had both proved equally useless at it.

Martin shifted uncomfortably on the ground beside his tent. Even if he couldn’t hold people, at least he could still take care of them by using the skills the castle cooks had taught him. At the moment he was peeling some root vegetables they’d foraged and slicing them into a big pot. If he got some stew going, it would still be good to eat by the time the others got back. He hoped. “Well, can you see them out there?”

Jon chuckled a little and gathered the branches into his arms. “It’s… it doesn’t work like that. It’s more of a vague sense of whereabouts, an instinct about others’ movements. I honestly try not to do it too much, it feels… prying. Sometimes I can’t help it, though.”

“That makes sense,” Martin said. He picked up another wild carrot and tried to hold trust in his heart. Trust that things would turn out alright.

Jon hesitated by the fireside before lowering down all his twigs and sticks. “If Gerry were here, though, he could tell us. He can see so much.”

Inside, Martin felt that ugly little jealous instinct twisting inside of him. So to push it down, he met Jon’s eyes and said, “Tell me about him?”

There was a smile that haunted Jon’s sad face. “He looks after me,” he said. “Sort of like you do. He always has. He made sure I was never alone, that I always had someone to talk to. He would sit beside my reflection and console me when things were dark. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know if I would’ve survived long enough to meet you. If it weren’t for him, I  _ know _ I wouldn’t have made it in time to save you. He warned me, you know, that you were in danger.”

“He did?” Martin said softly. He swallowed and set to tossing what he’d cut into the stew pot. “Maybe I’m not sorry, then, for taking the risk on his behalf, if he was willing to take one for me without ever having met me.”

Jon sat across from Martin as close as he dared. “You’ll like each other,” he said. “I believe it in my soul. You have a lot in common. You… care.”

“So do you,” said Martin, gently reminding him.

Jon averted his eyes. But for once, rather than attest to his monstrousness and dig in his heels, he said, “I do. So much.”

There was a warm little sense of pride in the core of Martin. Then he turned his gaze upward, towards the canopy. “Jon, look.” Jon did so, and when he did, he saw what Martin could see. The glittering of fireflies, their yellow-green light flickering between the leaves, bringing a rare light to the dark of the Blackwood. It wasn’t often you saw fireflies this far west of Faege. “Want to go stargazing with me?” Martin whispered.

Letting go of a pleased little hum from his chest, Jon said, “Gladly.” 

Both took a moment away from their chores, just a moment, to lay in the moss and earth, watching the little specks of light dance between trees like cold embers, like lazy and aimless shooting stars. Martin felt something jab lightly at his hand, and when he glanced aside, he saw Jon with one of the branches he’d gathered, holding it out to him. Martin beamed at him and took the other end of it in hand. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing to hold, but it connected them all the same. 

“I hope they’re still out when Tim gets home,” Jon whispered.

Home. What an odd thought. Martin had been thinking of himself as homeless, exiled as he was. But they were all exiles, weren’t they? So home would be wherever they were.

Maybe where Tim was, he could see them too.

***

Some say there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, when it’s all over. The gleaming gates of the heavens beckoning you to join the heroes of old, or the fires of the hells waiting to devour you. 

All Tim saw was the dark.

His eyes stung. It was crushing, suffocating, and it chilled his skin.

Was this all there was? Dark and silence?

But no, it wasn’t quite silence.

He could hear shouting in the distance. Distress.

Oh, so that was it, wasn’t it?

He was descending to the underworld. The demons would have him for his spite and pettiness.

Was this because he had been harsh with Martin when he was already suffering? Was this because he hadn’t shown Jon compassion for what his trauma had driven him to do? Maybe he deserved this.

Wait, no, that was  _ Melanie’s _ voice.

The realization shook Tim out of his shock. He was underwater. It was silty down here. Even plants couldn’t seem to grow. Bones littered the ground of creatures who had fallen before him, which he could just make out if he squinted. And down below, far below… an opening? His air was running out, though. He needed to surface. Still a bit disoriented, he started swimming up towards the sound of Melanie’s shouting.

“-- _ your _ fault! You know, I don’t make friends very easily!”

“You don’t say.”

“ _ Shut _ it! He was a good man and there’s a kingdom out there counting on him! Jon and Martin were depending on us to bring him back safe! And now, just because  _ you _ can’t be bothered to plan ahea--  _ what the fuck! _ ”

Tim coughed and sputtered as he breached the surface, wiping his eyes clean frantically.

“Tim!” Georgie cried. She reached out with the blunt end of her polearm, carefully gripping just below the spearpoint. “Grab on, I’ll pull you in!”

“Basira!” Melanie cried, her voice nearly breaking. “You said that would kill him! You scared me to death!”

“It  _ should _ have killed him,” Basira asserted, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Tim, who was clearly very much alive.

He was alive, wasn’t he? And every indication beneath the surface seemed to agree with Basira’s assessment. So why was he alive? Gladly he grabbed onto the pole and let himself get reeled in, kicking as best he could but lost in his own head.

“Is it possible all your research about this place is just wrong?” Melanie demanded, arms crossed, scowling.

“Oh no, she’s right,” Tim said, gaze distant, thoughts more distant still. “At least about the death thing. It’s a graveyard down there.”

“You haven’t studied wizardry, have you?” Basira suggested tentatively. 

“I mean, I’ve been studying fairies,” Tim said. He kept looking himself over to make sure all of him was still there. “And they say the veil between worlds is thin in Faege.”

“I mean, that could make you more receptive to wizardry, but usually isn’t enough on its own without study,” Basira said. She gave Tim a looking over too, as though to be sure.

“Wait! Our research!”

Both Tim and Basira turned sharply to Melanie, whose eyes were wide with realization.

“The allegiance,” Melanie said.

There was a dawning of realization inside of Tim. Why the fae had been angry with his family all this time. There had been an allegiance with the fairies. An allegiance long since forgotten by the short-lived humans, but all too recent to the nigh-immortal fairies who were now slighted.

An allegiance of marriage. 

“I have fae blood,” Tim whispered, staring out into the dark. As soon as he spoke it he could almost physically feel it in his veins. The magic and the mystery, the wild energy. People always said the Stokers were uncannily beautiful, after all. Supernaturally so.

And why wouldn’t someone be offended by a family that had shunned and abandoned them?

Basira smirked a bit in her fascination. “Well, would you look at that,” she said. “Our Tim’s a sorcerer.”

Tim ran a hand back through his wet hair. There was so much realization rattling around inside him that refused to settle down to any one coherent thought. He didn’t know how to feel. In a way, he was what he hated, wasn’t he? On the other hand, maybe this newfound heritage, this newfound power, would give him the answers he needed. Neither was something he could grapple with fully at the moment, though, because there was something else more pressing, more immediate. “Basira!” he said. “You know about magic! How do you… how do you spells?”

“It works different for different kinds of mages!” Basira said. “The way I understand with sorcerers is they don’t learn spells the way that other disciplines do they just kind of… feel it out? Usually you’d be taught this sort of thing by a parent.”

“So I improvise?” Tim grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Right, I can do that.” He unhitched his sword from his belt and emptied his bag at the base of a nearby tree to drop as much weight as he could. He even shrugged off his outer layers and kicked off his boots. 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Georgie pressed.

“Basira was right,” he said. “Looks like there’s a cellar hole down there, or something like. I’m going down to take a look, see if I can find… whatever this pact is. You know what I’m looking for?”

“Afraid not,” Basira said. “Every one is different. You’ll… probably know it when you see it, I guess?”

Tim sighed. “Great! Well… keep an eye out up here. I’m heading in.”

“Just be careful,” said Georgie.

“Please,” Tim drawled, wading in. “If I’d been careful, we never would have found out I’m magic!”

“You could have been--!”

Tim dove beneath the surface.

He held his breath as long as he could, let it out slow as he pushed down towards the bottom. He swam towards the center, where that opening stood, square and rimmed with stone. As long as he could he wanted to make this one breath last because he wasn’t yet sure he could figure out how to make himself gills or something of the like. Hopefully it was reversible, if he did pull it off.

It wound up not being an issue.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of the cellar hole, Tim fell down onto a hard stone floor. Startled and bruised, he coughed and gasped. The air down here was stale and musty, untouched by the surface for over a millennium. Glancing up, Tim could see the surface, or rather the underside, of the water, suspended above him like glass. “Huh,” he muttered, and even that quiet utterance echoed through the spiraling corridors that wound out around him.

It was dark down here, though, wasn’t it.

Still staring up at the water, and the tiniest glimpse of illumination that filtered down through it, Tim cleared his throat and said, “Are you there magic? Hi, it’s me. Tim. Sorry we haven’t spent much time together. But could you maybe, um… light?” He held out a hand in the empty air in front of himself and gestured vaguely in a way that seemed arcane enough to him. “Light, please? Just a little light? Could you light for--  _ ah! _ ” Tim yelped and recoiled as a sudden burst of flame erupted from his palm, only to sputter out immediately. “Okay… not quite… um…”

He tried to think a little harder, to focus on the idea of something more specific than light. Just a gentle glow. Like embers. Like sunset. Like fireflies.

Then that very same sort of soft glow began to emanate from Tim’s own person, pushing away the dark around him. He smiled. “Neat.”

Maybe this wasn’t so bad, his wretched heritage.

Keeping one hand on the wall, Tim began to trace his way along the ancient corridors. 

He expected the walls to be damper, being underwater and all, but he supposed whatever magical force kept this place from flooding also kept it dry. Fingers trailed along rough-hewn stone, and the corridor wound and snaked outward from the center in spiraling right turns. To the point where Tim would’ve expected to return to the center by now. Well, if this turned out to be a trap, he was going to feel like a real idiot. He remembered when his family was paid a visit by the new queen of Sannikov, and she’d regaled them with tales of how they would curse the treasonous to an eternity in a maze that always changed. It was tradition, she’d said. They’d done it this way for centuries, she said. Who was she to turn her back on custom, she said. Perhaps the mages of Sannikov had been contracted to do a bit of enchantment in the Blackwood. Or maybe the ancient Order was simply toying around with dangerous magics just to see what happened. 

Eventually Tim did find his way back to the center. From the exact same doorway he had entered in the first place.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. So that was how it was going to be. Fine. Well, at least he wasn’t trapped. But like all the hells he was going to quit now.

So how does one find something that does not want to be found?

“Well.” He remembered his mother’s voice and knowing smile, all the way back when he was a child. “It’s always in the last place you look.”

The last place he looked, huh?

Tim stared intently at the wall, focusing on the idea of the pact, of where he would like to end up. Then he closed his eyes. He waited a moment, lids shut tight, determinedly closing away his sight. Eventually he peeked back at the last place he had looked.

There was a new doorway there, closed behind a gnarled old wooden door.

“Thanks, mum,” Tim whispered, and clutched at his chest a moment in the stillness before pushing his way through.

The room beyond seemed to be illuminated by some unseen source. Now that he was here, whatever was here almost wanted to be seen. The first thing he was confronted with were rows and rows of bookshelves. What a wealth of knowledge there was here. There was no way he could bring it all back to Basira to see what she could make of it, but Tim swept an armload of books into his satchel to bring to her, hoping the leather would protect them on the trip back up. Boy, swimming back to the surface was going to be horrid with this weight. But maybe there was information they could use in there to help their friends or smite their enemies. 

Then he came around the bookshelves, and he saw it.

As though under a spotlight unseen, it sat on a plinth. Once or twice in his life, Tim had met wizards who specialized in divination, in tugging the strings of fate and seeing what they could pull to the surface. They worked with many tools, and one such tool was a crystal ball. The object which sat in front of him right now looked a bit like that. Only…

Only, it was a cloudy sphere of ancient tree resin.

Embedded inside were three pairs of eyes.

When Tim approached the plinth, all the eyes turned in the resin to look at him.

That probably wasn’t good. Tim hissed through his teeth and lunged to the plinth, stuffing the orb in his bag with the books before it could get a better look at him. Hopefully it wasn’t already too late. He had half a mind to throw it at the stone floor and try to shatter it here, but he got the feeling that this place wouldn’t make it easy. In tune as he was with his newfound power, it seemed best to trust his instincts.

Now he would just have to find a way to get back up to the water from down here. Maybe he could drag one of the bookcases out and climb it?

The instant Tim stepped out, he saw the moment the surface tension broke.

“Shit,” he spat.

Frantically he slammed the door shut behind him, hoping to protect the books, just before the flood washed in and slammed him against it. It felt like forever, pinned there by the torrential flow, his body aching with the pressure and the yearning of his lungs for breath. When finally the water reached equilibrium, he could not scramble up to the surface quickly enough, the weight in his bag be damned. He broke the surface, choking and gasping. It seemed like the water levels should be lower, after the flood. Well, an enchanted pond could hardly be expected to follow the rules, could it?

“Tim! What happened down there?” Georgie called to him.

“I found it,” he tried to say. Instead all that came out was a thin wheeze as his floundering body continued to struggle for breath. Feebly he paddled to shore, where he collapsed at Georgie and Melanie’s feet.

“Right, take your time,” Georgie said, and sat beside him. 

Tim opened up his mouth to try to speak again.

“Oh, Tim! I found you!”

Startled, Tim seized his head up to stare out between the trees, into the shadows, searching for the source of that voice.

There stood Sasha, clear as day, smiling bright as anything even in this darkness. Sasha, his oldest and dearest friend. Sasha, whose fate had nipped and torn at the edges of his mind ever since he left Faege.

“Sash, what are you doing here?” he said, his voice still weak. He pushed himself up and staggered forward.

She came running, her librarian’s medallion swinging, her robes a bit tattered from the journey. “I was wrong! Tim, I was wrong, I’m sorry! I don’t even know why I told you to come out here!”

Tim reached out for her, longing for her as much as he’d longed for air in his lungs down below. “It’s alright. You didn’t know. Sasha…”

Something was wrong.

Maybe it was the heightened connection to the magic in his veins. Maybe it was the powerful artifact of divination he’d hauled to the surface. Maybe it was simply the way, when you’ve known someone for a long time, you usually know when something is different. Off. The way you feel when you enter a room and everything has moved slightly to the left. 

But by this point, she had already taken his hand.

“You’re not Sasha,” he growled.

“Oh, what’s in a name?” the thing that looked like Sasha said. It laughed, and sunk its claws into Tim’s forearm, tearing at him.

“Oh no you don’t,” Basira snapped, drawing and loading her bow.

Melanie didn’t say a word, only lunged, one hand on her dagger.

In the blink of an eye, the thing that wasn’t Sasha was now behind Melanie. In one swift movement it twisted Melanie’s hand behind her back, stabbing her in the shoulderblade with her own knife.

“Hands off of her!” Georgie screamed, thrusting with her polearm. But the thing which had occupied the space she tried to hit was already gone. Georgie nearly overbalanced with the momentum when she failed to find resistance. 

Tim rolled out of the way and grabbed his sword. Why did it have Sasha’s face? Why?

Basira lowered her bow and released her readied shot into the ground, shaking her head. “Everybody, stand down!” she barked. “It’s a fairy! You’re not going to hit it!”

“I can try!” Tim shouted. He took a wild swing of his sword, though his sword arm was badly hurt. A spatter of his own blood arced through the air with the strike, but once again he failed to make contact.

“What’s wrong?” the voice whispered in his ear. “You wouldn’t hurt your old friend Sasha, would you?”

The voice was familiar. But not familiar as Sasha.

He felt claws at his throat.

“Only the dead are allowed to forget,” it whispered. “Time to send you home to your family.”

Tim fumbled with his sword as he felt the claws sink in.

All at once, he was released.

“Run!” Basira shouted. “Run now!” Tim watched, confused, as he saw her cast another fistful of rice from her pack on the ground before taking off. 

How could he run now? His revenge was so close. It was distracted, on its hands and knees counting. Maybe now he could get the drop on it.

But Georgie grabbed him by the arm and pulled him, dragging him along after the others. 

“You can’t run from your fate forever, little prince,” the fairy’s voice echoed through the wood behind them. Fortunately, the sound was the only thing that followed them.

“I thought the rice thing was vampires!” Melanie called after Basria, gripping her injured shoulder.

“There’s no such thing as vampires!” Basira snapped back.

Tim stumbled along begrudgingly with them as his vengeance was left behind, along with the sheath of his sword and many of their traveling supplies.

“This is terrible!” Georgie said. “We came all this way, we went through all this, and now we’re forced into a retreat and we have nothing to show for it!”

In spite of his resentment at their flight, Tim felt the weight at his hip from his satchel. It was at once reassuring and dreadful. “Oh no,” he said. “I do believe we have a great deal to show for it. I might not have gotten my revenge tonight, but someone is finally going to pay.” And now that they were bringing it back, Jon could have a hand in destroying it after all. Jon could set himself free.


	22. XXII: Heart of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes this week, I don't think, except that if you're reading this, I love you! Yes, you.

Something was stirring inside Jon, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. He’d thought maybe it was anxiety about their situation, or giddiness about his new relationships, but it was something else. He felt it every time he looked at Martin. 

Jon, Martin, and Daisy were sat around the campfire. They had each had a bowl of Martin’s soup and were now waiting for the others to rejoin them. Jon didn’t need to eat of course, but having something Martin prepared for him was another way to be close with him as long as they couldn’t touch. Now he sat as Daisy undid his old, dirty bandages, preparing to change the dressings.

“I wish I could help,” Martin sighed, watching from afar.

“You can,” said Daisy. She tossed a roll of gauze to him. “Cut this while I undo the old ones?”

Martin nodded, got out a pocket knife and got to work.

Jon winced a little as his neck wound was exposed for the first time since the struggle. He heard Daisy sigh. “I really did a number on you, didn’t I?”

“Could’ve been worse,” Jon said, stuck between a smirk and a grimace.

“Some bad lot you got as a monster though,” said Daisy. Her hands moved on to fuss with the knot on his arm bandage. Georgie had done a good job tying it off, perhaps too good. “Can’t even fast heal.”

“I  _ can _ ,” Jon muttered. “But only if I feed. Or if I turn into a moth and die, but that would send me straight back to Jonah, and that won’t do.” He hissed through his teeth as the bandage finally came undone, feeling a tingle in his fingers, circulation returning where he hadn’t even realized it had been restrained. That was going to ache for some time. Well, better than bleeding to death. 

For a moment, Daisy was quiet, staring down at the nasty tear she’d put in Jon’s arm. When Martin tossed the bandages back, she caught them without even looking. But rather than get to work tying them on, she said, “Would you like to feed?”

“I’d rather not if I can avoid it,” he said. He rolled his shoulders to try to let some of the tension out, but it wouldn’t go. “I’m so tired of hurting people.”

“I know how you feel.” Daisy shifted then, moving herself directly into Jon’s line of sight. “So go ahead.”

It wasn’t that Jon didn’t know what Daisy was suggesting. It was simply that he couldn’t process the idea of someone agreeing to it. “Beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been kinder to me than I deserve,” said Daisy. She tucked the unused bandages into a bag at her hip. “So consider this repayment for the damage I’ve done. I’ve got trauma enough to spare. You can have it.”

Slowly, Jon shook his head. “Daisy, I don’t think you know what you’re agreeing to. It’s painful. It can cause nightmares…”

“I already have nightmares,” Daisy scoffed. “Look. I want you to heal. This is maybe the only time I can quite literally undo the damage I’ve done. How often do you get a chance to build your strength back with someone who’s knowingly consented to it?”

She had a point, chagrined as Jon was to admit it. He sighed, and glanced past Daisy’s shoulder to Martin, who was watching them warily. “Don’t look,” he told Martin. “I don’t… I wouldn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

Martin nodded and dutifully averted his eyes. “Be careful.”

“I know what I’m doing all too well.” Jon fanned his wings out slowly, and in their gaze Daisy fell still, but made eye contact with Jon himself in white-knuckled determination. So the hunter became the hunted.

Daisy began to speak. She shared a tale of unbridled bloodthirst, and a curse that felt like justice done. She spoke of so many crimes she’d wrought with her own two hands, and further still with her teeth and claws. Crimes she’d tried to convince herself were justified, crimes she lay awake knowing were wrong. Crimes Basira had tacitly supported. Daisy spoke of the chasm of unspoken things that lay between her and the one she loved the most, not being sure if it could ever be bridged. Not when Daisy knew she was a monster. Not when Basira didn’t. 

When Jon finally lowered his wings, Daisy crumpled forward onto her own knees. Weakly, she laughed. “Oh, that takes a lot out of you, doesn’t it?”

“So it would seem,” said Jon, watching the wounds on his arm knit closed. “Thank you, Daisy. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” she said. “Especially after all that you’ve heard. I’ve a penance to pay.” On two shaking legs she managed, miraculously, to stand, eschewing gravity itself. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take my patrol now.” “Are you sure you’re in the condition to--” Martin began.

“I need a walk,” Daisy cut him off, eyes and words sharp. She slunk off then, between the trees, and began to circle the camp in an ever widening spiral.

Jon sighed as he watched her go. “Leave her what privacy she’s got left.”

“I tried not to listen,” Martin said. “Really, I did. I… want to trust her like you do, Jon. I do.”

“I don’t trust her,” Jon whispered, staring at the space where Daisy had been.

“What? Then why do you keep agreeing to let her protect you?”

Jon ran his hand up and down the skin of his arm, mostly new, except for a few new scars that his demonic master would not allow him to let go. “Because I need to believe that a monster can change.” He could hear the breath Martin took to tell him he wasn’t a monster, and smiled fondly, sadly. “You can keep telling me that I’m not, but I know what I’ve done.”

“I was going to say that you’ve already changed,” said Martin, so softly.

“Martin,” Jon sighed, fondly. He couldn’t repress the little smile that cracked at the corners of his lips. “It helps when you have people to inspire you to be better. People like you.”

“Oh,” Martin said, now flustered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I think you got there well enough on your own.” He heaved such a sigh; it landed heavy between the two of them. “I wish I could hold you right now. I really do.”

Jon looked at him, his face awash in raw, vulnerable adoration. “Then hold me in your gaze,” he said. “Keep me close in your mind.” He clutched at his knees, felt his claws sink in at his kneecaps. 

Martin’s eyeline intertwined with Jon’s own, and how warm Jon felt to be looked upon by him. He felt that  _ something _ inside him again, and how it pulled at him. The pull he felt, magnetic, towards his darling Martin, who needed him so, who suffered so without knowing a kind touch. How hard he’d worked to protect Martin, and yet still he suffered. How much Jon had tried to give. 

Now Jon felt his weight shifting, without ever having asked it to.

He felt the fresh skin on his arm and neck and side from having fed.

He felt the wings resting against his back.

He knew what he was.

The world called him a monster, and sometimes that was true.

What he really was, was a vessel.

A vessel for pain and suffering, crafted to feed the Beholding, an offering on his master’s behalf.

It wasn’t that Jon hadn’t wanted to do everything in his power to protect Martin. He did. Of course he did. And if that meant giving his life, he’d have done so gladly. But he made Martin a promise, a promise he desperately wanted to keep. A promise of life and love.

But now he understood.

The first time Jon had offered his life, it was in despair and self-loathing. The second time, it was in panicked desperation. But the third. Ah, the third. When Martin had already been free of his prison. When they easily had a route to run, and time to do it.

Jon knew now it wasn’t really  _ him _ that offered his life at all.

The Beholding, the Ceaseless Watcher, it wanted suffering after all. Suffering that Jon kept staunchly refusing to feed it. If it could not have the suffering he gathered, then why not his suffering? Why not the suffering of those around him?

Those who would mourn for him.

Jon did not belong to himself, had not for a long time.

Now, with a renewed strength, with a renewed connection to his master flowing through him, it moved him.

Jon didn’t want to do this. He did not want to hurt Martin like this.

But he knew that he was going to, whether he liked it or not. Fine. Then at least Martin would be free. At least he would still have Tim at his side. Jon could make peace with that, at least. Make peace with having saved him from being trapped by Jonah’s magic, even if the decision wasn’t his alone.

“Jon? Jon, what are you doing?” Martin shifted uncomfortably, leaned back as Jon drew closer.

Tears ran down Jon’s cheeks. He got a good look at his beloved one last time, soaked it in, cherished it. “Martin, I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “It won’t give me a choice.”

Jon felt himself lunge in for the kiss.

“Jon, n--!”

How warm, how inviting the kiss of Jon’s beloved prince. How gladly Jon fell into it. Of all the ways he could have died, there were so many much worse.

***

“Jon, n--!” Martin screamed into the kiss as Jon pressed against him, coiled his arms around him. He felt… cold. Like falling into the ocean in autumn. How it seeps into all your muscles, locks you up, weighs you down. What agony. 

Just like resurfacing, he gasped for breath as Jon crumpled in his arms. A trembling, broken wail escaped Martin. Not just because Jon had done it, but because the whole time he’d been approaching him, he could see him trying to hold himself back. He tried to beg whatever force would hear him to undo what had been done, but he could not even articulate the word “no”, only let out pained sounds like a wounded animal. Jon. This awful curse had stolen his Jon, just as he feared it would. He could feel that awful hollow, empty, distant feeling melting away, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t worth the sacrifice.

But then, how startled he was when he felt Jon shift in his arms.

Martin yelped in shock and dropped him to the ground.

Equally surprised, Jon pushed himself up and scrambled backward on his hands and thighs, wide-eyed and nearly singeing his wings on the campfire.

But there he was, alive and well.

“J-Jon,” Martin stammered, voice breaking. He reached his trembling fingers up to touch his own lips in disbelief. That had happened, hadn’t it? Indeed he could not feel the curse roiling inside him anymore, could not feel the pangs of loneliness that had clung to him when it was there. It must be broken.

Jon shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

Neither did Martin. He didn’t know what to say. He’d suspect the entire curse had been a cruel lie had he not felt the magic so keenly, so genuinely inside himself. So why had Jon survived? Not that he wasn’t grateful, of course he was grateful, but it didn’t make sense.

There was a dawning in Jon’s face then. But it was a dark and clouded dawn, the kind that sailors dread. The sign of a coming storm. “Oh,” he mouthed. Then he spoke it aloud. “Oh.” Shaking, he got to his feet.

Martin could only watch him, because he was still too stunned to speak.

Jon averted his eyes, coiled his thin arms around himself. “You don’t love me anymore.”

But that wasn’t it at all. Martin loved Jon so. Jon had given him the strength to believe in himself, to question Peter, to fight. “W-wait.” The word was barely audible, he was still trying to catch up with everything that was happening around him.

Already Jon was turning from him. Already Jon was fanning his wings, flicking them. “It’s alright, Martin. I understand. You don’t have to explain yourself. I’ve… I hurt you one too many times. I… I’ll go.”

_ No, don’t go. I can finally hold you. I want to hold you. I want to let you know that it’s going to be alright. That you are my light in the darkness, like the fireflies. _ “Jon. Jon please.”

“I’m going to go find Tim,” whispered Jon. “I owe him an explanation.” With two more flaps of his wings he transformed, and darted off into the night.

“Jon, wait!” Martin called, stumbling to his feet. But it was no use. He stared after where Jon had gone and struggled to put it all together in his head.

Wording, Basira had said. Exact wording was important. So what was it that Jonah had said? He’s said… he said when someone he loved kissed him even though they would die, the curse would be broken. No, that wasn’t quite it, was it? No… it was…

_ If someone who you love dearly, knowing what will happen to them, accepts their fate and kisses you anyway, the spell will be broken at once. _

Martin choked on his own breath as the realization slammed into his chest.

The kiss hadn’t broken the curse at all.

The  _ decision _ to kiss him had. The resignation to death.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin said weakly and dropped to his knees. Hopefully Tim would set Jon’s head right and bring him back so Martin could explain himself.

***

What a fool he had been. How naive to think that the Beholding would ever allow him to have love. That was not what he was for. Maybe he could still yet cling to something with Tim, or his rekindled friendship with Georgie, his newfound friendships with the others… if any of them forgave him for what he had just done.

After all, he’d broken his promise. Perhaps it hadn’t been entirely his decision. But he’d broken the promise nonetheless. He’d almost thrown himself away again.

No wonder Martin didn’t love him anymore.

The thought alone made Jon halt mid flight, dropping from the sky and landing among the brush. He turned once again to a man and limped the rest of the way to the Reflecting Pool.

Of course, he knew the way all too well. Not that he’d been there often, but if you wanted to avoid a place, you had to know how to get there first. After all, the Beholding seemed to have a lot of influence there. And Jon hated it when creatures fell in. Poor, helpless things.

Jon fell still at the edge of the pool. There was a cold that sank into him, deep down to the bones when he saw.

There were bags and supplies scattered on the ground. Abandoned weapons, dropped arrows. Blood. Above the surface of the water there was a cracked branch, scratches where fingernails had tried to keep purchase.

They’d been driven in, hadn’t they?

Jon clasped his hands to his mouth, shaking. He tried to use his power to see, to Know. It was hard here, so close to such a magical place. But he could see that the waters had been disturbed, and recently.

Panic and grief clogged up Jon’s mind like a dam in a creek. Still holding onto his mouth, tears ran down over his hands. Gone gone gone. They were gone. Martin didn’t want him and the others were gone and Daisy might just kill him over it for all he knew. He couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t breathe. 

Maybe it wasn’t what he thought. Maybe Gerry could help him see. If he could just get to Gerry, he’d make everything clear for him the way he always did. His dear, reliable Gerry. Jon flipped back and forth between running and flight, exhausting himself with the transformations, but he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know. He couldn’t think.

Before he knew it, the tower loomed ahead of him. He was bleary-eyed, breathless and shaken before his last transformation took him circling the tower up to the top. He would have to be quiet, have to be careful. Hopefully Jonah wasn’t in the loft already, but he so rarely was. Jon just had to check in. He needed help. He didn’t know where else to turn. He fluttered in through the arrowslit, then landed on his feet.

Then collapsed to the floor.

“Gerry?” he said, weakly, to the shattered mirror before him, his voice hoarse and uncertain.

He heard no reply except a faint creaking.

That was when Jon screamed. He held his head between his hands and wailed until finally, exhausted, he collapsed on the stone.

When he woke, dizzy and weak, he was in Jonah’s arms.

“Oh, Jon,” he whispered, and clucked his tongue. “Look what you’ve gone and done.”

“Wh…” Jon was quivering like a leaf in the breeze. He felt… frail, strange. And weaker by the second. He slowly held a trembling hand up to his face and saw it was turning grey. “Jonah?”

“I tried to protect you,” Jonah chided. He picked Jon up as easily as if he were cotton. “I really did. And I warned you. What have I always told you, Jon?”

Jon heard Jonah, if distantly. He didn’t have the strength to reply. Alone. He was all alone. Everyone he counted on was dead, or as good as dead, or they didn’t want him around anymore, or maybe they wanted him dead. He whimpered faintly and curled up tighter in Jonah’s grip.

“I told you,” Jonah said patiently, carrying Jon downstairs, “that there was only one way to kill you. That the only way to kill you was to destroy your heart. And now look at you. You’re dying.”

Oh. 

Jon wished he had it in him to care about that. All he could think about was the others.

“Not to fret,” said Jonah fondly, and even tucked a loose wisp of Jon’s hair back behind his ear. “I’m here now. I can’t save your life as it is though, Jon. I can’t unbreak your heart. But I can… put you in a sort of stasis, as it were. Would you like that, Jon? You can still be useful to me. You can still matter to someone.”

“Yes, Jonah,” Jon muttered, monotone. He didn’t care. Whatever he wanted. That would be alright with him.

“It just so happens,” Jonah remarked, “that I am in need of… well, a backup pact. I can transform you as I have with others. I’ll make you into an object, maybe a lovely crystal. Then you’ll carry the power of my promise to the Ceaseless Watcher inside of you. I will treasure you for the rest of both of our very long lives. Wouldn’t that be nice, Jon?”

“Yes, Jonah.” Jon stared blankly at the ceiling as it passed, feeling the life seeping out of him.

“Then you can help me take care of something I’ve been working on for a very long time,” Jonah said. He lay Jon down on the floor of the study, beside the cauldron which had once rendered Jon into a monster. “You, my treasure. You, the most important thing I own. You are going to help me extend my life. You cannot know how grateful I am for that. And in return, I save your life. I do this kindness for you in spite of how you’ve betrayed me, how you’ve tried to turn your back on me. This is how important you are to me, my Jon.”

“Thank you, Jonah,” Jon said, his voice so fragile. Nothing mattered. This was for the best. At least he was something to someone.

Jonah took up a tome in hand, standing over Jon. In the candlelight, his shadow fell over him from so many angles. His smile, too, was cast in shadow. “Don’t you worry, my pet. I am going to take such good care of you.”


	23. XXIII: The Moth to the Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry this is so late, I've been having a TIME. Normally I don't like to compete with release days but I REALLY wanted to get this up, so here you go.
> 
> ALSO. I keep forgetting to let you know that my beta reader has another fic ongoing that you might like. Check out "Coming Home" by 14CookiesGone if "TMA Ranch AU" sounds like a thing you might be interested, which it should, because holy shit?

Every second that went by, Martin could feel it falling away like the grains in an hourglass, slowly emptying out beneath him. Waiting is one of the world’s unique and singular agonies, and he felt it as keenly as the curse which had only just fallen from his shoulders. Every muscle in his body called for action, but he would not give them the order. There would be no more running off alone, no more jumping without looking. Beside him, Daisy sat in full wolf form, ears flicking to and fro, fully on guard.

When there was a disturbance in the wood nearby, she leapt up to all fours and bared her teeth, ready to defend the future king.

“Daisy, it’s us,” Basira announced. She was ragged, branches and leaves tangled in her scarf, scuffed and weary. The others who pooled in behind her didn’t look much better at all. Melanie was gripping a wounded shoulder, and Tim had hastily bandaged his arm. Despite this, his face was aglow with adrenaline and excitement. “Martin, I have… mixed but probably good news! I…” He trailed off then, seeing Martin’s tear-streaked face. Cautiously, he asked, “What happened? Where’s Jon?”

Martin could hardly meet Tim’s eyes. “I… was hoping he’d be with you.”

Tim’s voice dropped dangerously low. “Why isn’t he with you.”

“Tim, please don’t be angry with him,” Martin pleaded. He reached out to take Tim’s hand, and instinctively Tim recoiled, even gasped when they made contact. He stared in confusion as Martin took his hand all the same and gently rubbed the back of it with his thumb. “We were tricked.”

“He did it after all, didn’t he?” Tim said, staring at their interconnected hands. “And it didn’t kill him?”

“It never would have!” Martin cried. “It’s what Basira said, about exact wording! I should have tried harder to remember, I should have…”

Gently, Tim shushed Martin and reached to caress his cheek. “It’s not you, it’s not your fault.”

“It’s not his either!” Martin insisted, leaning into Tim’s touch. “He… Tim, you should have seen him. He was actively resisting. I think he was compelled to make the sacrifice. He’s… it all really went to his head. He’s in a dark place. And I think Jonah was counting on that. So if he’s not with you…”

“...the Tower,” Tim concluded grimly. He nodded once, jaw set. “Right, well, glad I finished our little scavenger hunt.” He unshouldered his bag and dropped it heavily to the ground.

Martin’s face alit. “Oh, the pact, you found it!?” Then, slowly, his expression floundered. “...and you brought it all the way back here?”

“I was in a bit of a rush! Magic traps, floods, the fae who killed my family sent an assassin wearing my best friend’s face…”

“ _ What? _ Is that what happened to your arm? Tim, do you need...”

“There’s no time!” Tim said. “Jon needs us!” He grabbed several books out of the bag and tossed them aside. Then, without removing the pact itself, he swung the bag heavily against a nearby rock. As he did, Martin saw him mouthing something under his breath, taking the swing with incredible focus. There was a loud, echoing crack as it made contact, much louder than Martin was expecting, and he staggered back, covering his ears. 

Everyone in camp turned to look. Even Daisy peeked out from her tent, where she was changing, in more than one sense of the word. 

Without so much as opening his pack, Tim took the whole thing and tossed it onto the fire. It was barely smoldering. But with a snap of Tim’s fingers, the coals reignited, consuming the leather of the bag. Something inside let out an inhuman scream.

Still trying to process everything that happened before Tim’s arrival, Martin struggled to process what he was seeing. “Um?”

Tim sighed, watching it burn. “I… okay, so I might be a sorcerer.”

“Alright,” Martin said, uncertainly, looking Tim up and down. “Do you… want to talk about that?”

“Nope! I want to talk about killing Jonah Magnus! As soon as possible, because he may have our Jon.”

Martin took a deep breath, trying to pull together his rattled nerves and what resolve he had. Everyone was looking to him. Georgie was tending to Melanie’s wounds, Daisy was slinking from her tent, and Basira was gathering up the old books in her arms. But they were all looking to him, worried, like they wanted to take care of him.

But he wanted to take care of them too.

Once upon a time, if you had asked Martin, he would have told you he had no business being king. He knew he was meant to be one, that it was chosen for him by fate. Once, if given the chance, he would’ve abandoned that fate without a second thought. He didn’t think of himself as a leader, didn’t really want it. But lately he’d seen his fill of the kinds of people who embraced power gladly. The kinds of people who were all too eager to use it. If Martin could hold that authority away from those who would abuse it, for as long as he could, he would. But that meant he had to use it, and he had to use it to help.

What better time to start than to come to the aid of someone he loved?

“Right, everyone gather round, please. In a few minutes, we’re going to break camp and we’re going to strike out east, but first, we need to talk about the plan.”

“And you have one?” Basira said.

“Yes,” Martin said, firmly, not stooping to the condescension. “And I expect  _ all _ of us to stick to it. The only way we’re going to get through this is if we stop making snap decisions and come to an agreement. Will you all agree to trust me, and to follow my lead?”

Georgie took her seat in the circle. “I’ll gladly follow you, my king.”

Joining at her wife’s side, flexing her shoulder to test the bandages, Melanie pitched in, “Yeah, sure.”

“Making my own decisions never did me or anyone any good, so I’d rather listen to you,” said Daisy as she joined the others.

Basira said nothing, only nodded once, firmly, then sat beside Daisy while thumbing through an ancient tome.

Gripping Martin’s hand tight, Tim said, “I’ll follow you to all the hells and back.” 

“Hopefully we won’t have to go that far,” said Martin with a meek smile. “Just… just to one hell. And it’s already here.” He took another deep breath. “Jon needs us, and I mean to go after him. To save him, and to save Gerry too. Jon’s one of us and I refuse to abandon him, and because Gerry is important to him, we’ll get him out too. But this time, we’re going to do it right. First thing’s first: strength in numbers. We all go together. Jonah is powerful, very powerful, and he can use his magic to assume control of others,  _ especially _ of Jon. The more of us there are, the less vulnerable any of us are. Agreed?”

Mostly, Martin was greeted with a chorus of yeses and nods. Except for Basira, who peeked up from her reading and said, “My king, a counterargument?”

“I welcome your counsel,” Martin said, opening the floor to her. Counsel. He would need counselors, wouldn’t he? What was a king without advisors? And what were his friends, gathered here, but the best counsel he could ask for. People who had his back, but had their own opinions, own ideas.

“I stay behind,” Basira offered. She held up one of the books. “There’s a strong chance someone in our party is getting cursed. Jon and his Gerry are cursed already, in their own way. I intend to dedicate my time to research, so that on your return, I can help who I can. These books are in an ancient dialect, very different from our modern tongue. It will take me time to translate as it is.”

“I accept,” Martin said. “You stay back, learn what we need to learn. Wizardry is dangerous though, I want you to work with Tim on this on our return.”

Disgusted, Basira’s nose wrinkled. “He barely knows how to cast a spell!” she said. “I’ve spent years studying theory and practice!”

“Hey, it only took me one false start to figure out how to glow!” Tim argued.

“He’s also much less likely to be killed by magic,” Martin said. He clasped his hands together in plea. “Please, I need us all to work together. The only ones who benefit from us infighting are our enemies.”

“Fine,” Basira muttered, settling back into her seat on a stump. 

“Well, if Basira’s staying behind, I’m staying behind to to guard her,” Daisy ventured.

In perfect unison, Martin and Basira said, “No you are not.”

“And why not?” Daisy pushed, leaning forward.

“Because they’re going to be in more immediate danger than I will,” said Basira. “I know how to handle the Blackwood. The Mage Magnus is a bigger threat.”

“You’ve said you want to atone for your past,” Martin added. “The best way to do that is to put yourself out there in defense of people who are helpless. Basira isn’t helpless. Jon and Gerry are right now.”

Daisy sighed, but nodded. “Very well.”

This was going better than Martin had expected so far. There was disagreement, but everyone was listening to one another. It was the next part of the plan that worried him the most though. The part even he hated to say, but he knew what had to be done. Caution was key, after all. No more misguided heroics. “Another thing we have to agree to, and I cannot stress this enough, is that Jon and Gerry have to be our priority. Getting them out safely comes before anything else. And I mean anything. That is to say…” He squared his shoulders, held himself up higher, spoke with authority. “We will not be killing the Mage Magnus tonight.”

A chorus of appalled “What”s erupted around the firepit. 

“Oh, no,” Tim said, shaking his head. “I’m going to kill the bastard.”

“Not if I get to him first!” Melanie said. She was already busy sharpening her knives.

Georgie sighed. She laid a hand gently over her wife’s. “Can we  _ please _ hear the king out?”

“I know how to kill,” Daisy said firmly, darkly, staring at Martin. “Imagine all the people I could protect if I killed that monster.”

“Listen,” Martin said, more firmly, and held out his hands to quiet the dissent around him, “nobody wants that man dead more than I do!”

“Speak for yourself,” Tim muttered.

“ _ But _ ,” stressed Martin, “we cannot afford to have mixed priorities! He’s weakened without his pact, but he’s still powerful, so we musn’t underestimate him! Underestimating the Boneturner after I broke his pact almost killed me, it was only the good fortune of Tim’s arrival that saved my life. And Jonah is a  _ much _ stronger warlock than he was. If we try to fight while we’re also attempting an extraction mission, we may well put everyone in danger, including the people we’re supposed to be saving. We’re not approaching from an advantageous position here! We need to be in and out as fast as possible. Consider this a command from your king, if you have to. We will strike against our enemies once we have a chance to regroup. For now, Jon is more important to me than revenge. Is that clear?” Martin didn’t want to have to do this, to have to be the authoritarian. In this one instance, however, solidarity was vital. The herd had to close ranks against the lion.

Most seemed to accept the premise with minimal grumbling. Only Tim growled, “You’re not my king. I love you, but you are not my king. I am my own regent under my own authority, and I will act as I see fit.”

Gently, Martin turned Tim to face him, holding both hands in his. “You’re right,” he said. “In that case, as my partner, my beloved, and my future betrothed, in the name of the two kingdoms we will rule together, I implore you to trust me on this. You said you’d follow me anywhere? Please follow me on this. Do it for me, for Jon. I need you to have a clear head on your shoulders in there. No outbursts, no opportunistic strikes. For once in your life, Tim, can you let vengeance go?”

There was still a storm brewing in Tim’s gaze, but he let out a long, low sigh and kissed Martin’s temple. “Fine. I follow your lead on this one.”

“Thank you,” Martin said softly. He turned back to the others. “And thank you all. Now… here’s what we have to do…”

***

It was hard to make a stealthy approach on the tower, barren and flat as No Man’s Land was. Fortunately, there was an outcropping of dry brush for the team to hunch behind and prepare themselves. From a third story window there was a flickering green light that disquieted Martin to see. He prayed to whoever might be listening that it wasn’t too late. At least Jonah would probably be occupied, which would keep his attention off their movements until they were upon him.

“I trust you,” Tim said, “and I am not going to argue, but I would like once again to say before we go that I wish we were going in together.” He readied his sword and stared at the tower ahead.

“I know. But I need you on the forward team to--”

“I know, I know, to check for traps, and to get into the room where he hides Gerry, I know.” He took a deep breath, then leaned in to claim a kiss from Martin’s lips. “Be safe.”

“You too,” Martin said, and ran his knuckles gently down Tim’s jawline.

Beside them, Georgie and Melanie traded a few quick, soft kisses too. “I can protect myself, you know that,” Georgie protested.

“I know, I know,” said Melanie, “I just… well, I always feel better when I’m there to watch your back.” 

“Me too.” She gave Melanie a tight embrace, ran a hand through her short, wavy hair. “I’ll see you on the other side of this, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Melanie said firmly. “I mean it.”

Georgie gave her the bravest smile she could muster, then turned to Tim. “You ready?”

“More or less,” he said. He crept low over the dry earth towards the door, and Georgie followed with her pike at the ready.

Martin watched him go with a pang of fear in his heart, remembering the last time he’d broached that door. Part of him felt sure the only reason he’d been able to enter unhindered was that Jonah had  _ wanted _ him to enter. Now, sure enough, he watched from afar as Tim panned his hand over the door and something sparked, fizzled, and failed. Tim glanced back over his shoulder to nod once, then forged forward into danger.

Martin hated to watch him go. As much as anything he wished they all could’ve gone in one group. However, his plan demanded one scouting group and one follow group. One group to go after Gerry and one for Jon, to extract both of them as quickly as possible, and not to worry about defending the one while retrieving the other. Moreover though, and Martin hated to admit it, but he had to keep Tim and Melanie separate from each other. Daisy seemed intent on her atonement, but Tim and Melanie were just as likely to nudge each other into escalation as anything. Georgie would hopefully keep Tim grounded, and Martin trusted Melanie to follow his lead. Besides, he’d need her subterfuge as well as Daisy’s raw lycanthropic power to get the better of Jonah.

“I’m coming, Jon,” Martin whispered, then nodded to the companions at his side to follow him up the tower, having given Tim and Georgie a lead.

Crossing the threshold to the stairwell, Martin could see small scorch marks on the floor. Places where Tim had burned away the magic and the traps barring their progress. Eyes in paintings and etched into the woodwork had been scored by Tim’s blade. They seemed to be making quick work to the top, and Martin was glad of it. Based on what he saw, he hoped his assumptions had been correct; that Gerry was largely unguarded, while Jonah remained with Jon in his study, where Martin had been cursed. 

Martin felt a shaking in his knees, having returned here, after all that had happened to him. 

But people were counting on him, and he would not be the coward and the weakling his stepfather had believed him to be. He took a few deep breaths, and he forged on, a wolf at his side and Melanie watching his back. 

Behind the sturdy oaken door of the study, he heard the strangest hum, saw the light flickering from beneath it. It was vivid green and bright as fire. He laid one hand on the hilt of his sword, his other on the wood. It felt strangely cold to the touch. He pushed it open.

“Ah,” said Jonah Magnus, softly, without even turning around to look at them. “So you have come after all. I was wondering if you would make it. Don’t think I didn’t notice your little friends, either, but the mirror has served its purpose. They can have it, if they like.”

But Martin didn’t even see Jonah. He could only see Jon.

Jon, down on his knees, bathed in the light of the spell being cast upon him. Jon, weary and miserable, with the color draining from his body and even from the clothes he wore. The brightest thing about him was the deep green crystal slowly overtaking his body. It spread up from his hands and feet. It overtook the tips of his hair as it encroached on his head. His once jet black eyes were now emerald and faceted. How resigned he looked. How defeated. Embraced by the magic he would gladly allow to destroy him.

“Jon!”

At his call, Jon seemed to see Martin for the first time. At once, the color came rushing back to him. “Martin?”

“I still love you!” Martin cried. “We love you and we’re here for you! You were tricked, you were used, but we’re not going to let him take you!” He held out his hand.

Jon sobbed, and he struggled against the magic binding him. With his will to live flooding into him once more, the spell’s hold on him was easily disrupted. In most places, the transformation had only gone skin deep; the crystal crumbled away, leaving behind tattered clothes and raw, new skin. His eyes, however, remained transformed, marked by the magic imposed on him. He struggled and stumbled to his feet, still weakened, but growing stronger.

Jonah sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, yes, this is all very endearing, but don’t act as though I wasn’t prepared for this eventuality.” He smiled, and in a lilting singsong he said, “Oh, Jon?”

With a horrified grimace, Jon staggered to a halt, having just barely stood. “No…”

“Wings out, pet,” Jonah ordered.

And Jon, as Jonah’s familiar, as Jonah’s possession, had no choice but to oblige, fanning his wings and paralyzing those present. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whimpered. “None of you should be here. I don’t want to be the reason you die.”

Of course Martin’s heart went out to Jon, and of course he was afraid. Only a fool is unafraid. What he was not was unprepared. There was a reason, after all, he had the werewolf at his side. “Daisy,” he said, “you know what to do.”

Snarling, Daisy dutifully shut her eyes. Her nose and her ears were much sharper in this form anyway. She crouched low and lunged, past Jon, baring her teeth at Jonah, aiming to wrestle him down, to pin him just long enough…

But Jonah was ready too.

Smiling, he withdrew a blade from his cloak.

Martin just barely saw the glint of silver. “Wait! Daisy, fall back!”

It was too late for anything like that. Jonah ducked under the arc of Daisy’s lunge, slashing across her chest with the silver blade.

Daisy let out a yelp, tumbling and crumpling against a far wall. She struggled to get back up, but the metal had poisoned her lupine blood, weakening her.

Jonah shrugged and wiped the blade carefully on a rag from his pocket. “A shame,” he said. “For all their posturing and aggression, a werewolf is really a simple thing to overpower. I suppose that’s what you get when you pit brawn against wit.” He turned then to Jon, still stood stalk still, trembling under holding his orders. He pressed the handle of the dagger into Jon’s hand. “My Jon,” he drawled in the voice which Jon could not refuse. “Do be a dear and kill Prince Martin for me.”

“No, no,” Jon wept, but he advanced on Martin all the same, his wings still spread wide. 

“You could have left this all alone,” Jonah announced. Behind him, Daisy was still struggling to push herself up, and he gave her a kick for good measure. “I wasn’t going to kill you, I told you as much. But you had to go against the one thing I asked you. You had to meddle in what is mine. You really left me no choice, you understand that, yes?”   
  
Martin wanted to back away, but he couldn’t even do that. “Jon… listen to me… I know you don’t think you can, but I want you to try to refuse.”

“I can’t,” Jon said, his voice trembling. “Martin, don’t you see, I belong to him. Our master made me his.”

Jonah turned his back on the scene with great indifference. “I do thank you though for giving me the means to destroy his heart once again, to undo what you have broken.” He walked over to Daisy, pressed a foot against her throat. “Now, what to do with you.”

She struggled to snap at his leg, but the angle was wrong. She couldn’t reach.

In his advance on Martin, though, Jon had passed Melanie’s range of vision. Her eyes narrowed, and she set her jaw. Seeing her opportunity, Melanie readied her knives and rushed in, aiming square between the mage’s shoulderblades.

She would never reach him.

Jonah, without looking, reached behind him and caught her by the wrist. He pivoted on his heel, pulled her in close, and with his free hand, gripped her tight by her wounded shoulder, digging his fingers in. She screamed, dropping her dagger with the sudden pain. “You forget,” he said. “My master, he has granted me such gifts. And one of those gifts is the ability to see anything. Including where you are weak.”

“Bastard,” Melanie growled.

Jonah tipped his head. “Ah. Interesting that you would bring up the subject of fatherhood. Would you like to talk about your father?”

To the other side of the room, Jon, weeping, gripped Martin by the hair and put a knife to his throat.

Martin closed his eyes.

***

The green door, of course, could not be unlocked by any mundane means. It was a prison, of course, for the most treasured captives of a mage. As such, only a mage’s hand could undo what held it fast. Tim squinted, focusing, laying a finger upon the lock. He tried to visualize, in his head, a lock, well, unlocking. He wished he understood how a lock worked, that might make this easier. 

“How’s it coming?” Georgie whispered, standing behind him, her polearm poised in her hands, pointed down the stairwell.

“Just hang on,” Tim hissed. “I’m a sorcerer, not an angel. I do magic, not miracles.”

“Okay well the faster you can magic the better,” Georgie muttered.

“Oh, to hells with this,” Tim said. Abandoning subtlety, he knocked on the lock with a vision of force in his head. The entire plate--lock, latch, handle, and all--fell from the door with a puff of smoke. The door creaked open. “There. That was much easier.” He stood, brushed off his hands, and pushed in.

The room was dark, but fortunately one of the few things he was sure how to do made up for that. As his glow alit, he saw the mirror hanging on the far side of the room, and how the cracks across it glittered.

“Gods,” Georgie whispered, taking his side. “Do you think he’s still alive in there, even?”

“Don’t know,” said Tim. “But we’ll have to figure that out later.” He crept across the room. Passing over the haystack at the center, he stumbled over something. He paused and bent to pick it up, hoping it wasn’t some kind of trap or alert.. It seemed instead to be a small spreading knife. It was no weapon, blunt as it was, but if it was hoarded up here it might be a treasure of Jon’s, so he tucked it into his belt all the same. Approaching the wall, he closed his eyes and felt around the frame. There seemed to be no magic holding it there, no magic guarding it. Maybe there wasn’t anything left to be saved after all, if he was so unprotected. Tim wouldn’t count on that though. “Hey,” he whispered. “You don’t know us, but we’re people who care about Jon. We’re here to get you out of here for him.” Carefully, gently, he lifted the mirror from where it hung on the wall. He could hear the fragments of glass rattling against each other in the frame, and gritted his teeth for fear that they would fall out. It was a large mirror, and a hefty, heavy frame. It needed both arms to carry, and was unwieldy to hold. “This will be a nightmare to transport.”

“Here,” Georgie said softly. She reached up to her shoulder and undid a pin, pulling the traveling cloak from her shoulders. Gently, she wrapped the cloak around the mirror as much as she could and pinned it in place. The top and bottom of the oval ornate silver frame still peeked out, but the glass was better protected. “There you go. Hopefully that will help you stay in one piece… more or less.”

Tim nodded. “Right. Lead the way? I’ll carry him.”

Georgie gripped the pole of her pike tight and nodded. Georgie edged down the stairs, spearpoint first, with Tim following her, glancing occasionally behind them.

A couple flights down, they heard Melanie scream.

Georgie gasped. “Melanie.” She had already begun to run.

Tim wanted to follow her. There were thoughts racing through his mind of swooping in to save both his boyfriends in one fell swoop, of running the Mage Magnus through with his sword. He had to pay. He wanted to see that man pay.

But he felt the weight of the mirror in his arms, fragile and rattling. 

He remembered how Jon had worried for him.

He remembered Martin’s eyes, soft and pleading, asking him to trust in his leadership, asking him to follow.

“The plan,” he hissed after Georgie.

“That’s my wife,” Georgie snapped.

“And my partners,” Tim reminded her. “But… Martin’s right. We can’t keep rushing in without a plan or we put us all in danger. We  _ need _ to fall back to the rendezvous spot. We need to trust them to overcome this.”

Georgie swallowed. She glanced at the door. She glanced back to Tim. Reluctantly, she nodded, and continued to escape down the stairs. “Strength, my love,” she whispered as she passed.

Tim followed her out too. But as his eyes lingered on the door while he passed, he wondered if his own wish for luck for them might carry his magic to them too.

***

Martin closed his eyes, and he was afraid. He might be wrong, he might have made the wrong call. Maybe he should have kept the whole group together, rather than a two-pronged attack. Maybe he didn’t put the right people in the right positions.

But doubt was what would kill him, and he knew it. Resolve would save them all.

“I know he’s your master,” he said, feeling the blade knick his skin. “And I know the demon is his… but… the pact is broken, Jon. And with it, his contract. He knows it, too, that’s why he’s trying to use you. To prove his loyalty. But his power is waning, Jon. And he is distracted. And he is out of favor.”

Jon blinked, surprised. His hand did not lower, but he ceased to cut. “I… Martin, I’m trying, but it’s hard. I can feel his commands inside me, pushing me. I can feel the Ceaseless Watcher and it wants to hurt me, to hurt you.” His arm trembled with the strain of holding it back.

“Maybe,” said Martin with a nervous smile, “but remember… magic works on exact wording. He said to kill me… but he didn’t say when. You could wait until I’m an old, old man if you wanted to.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed in thought. He lowered his head, concentrated. His wings fell. His arm fell. He collapsed against Martin’s chest, shivering. “Get me out of here,” he whimpered.

Martin moved quickly to scoop up Jon in his arms, held him close against his beating heart, felt him shaking. “I need you to trust me on this next part,” he whispered. “And I need your help. It’s going to be dangerous.”

Eagerly, Jon nodded. “Yes, I’m with you. Anything.”

Martin laid a kiss against Jon’s temple, drawing strength from his closeness. Then he looked to Jonah, where he had Melanie in tears and in pain, preparing to unspool her trauma from her. “Jonah,” he barked, calling his attention.

Jonah looked up and released Melanie, baffled at Jon’s failure to have performed his orders. “What is this?”

“Oh, is he yours?” said Martin. “Well you can come take him back, if you like! You just have to pry him out of my cold, dead hands!” He backed towards the window.

Behind Jonah, injured and shaken, Melanie scrambled to grab the even more injured Daisy. Their exit covered by Martin’s distraction, she dragged Daisy out to go get help. After all, of what importance were they if Martin was trying to take Jonah’s most prized possession.

“And where, pray tell, do you think you’re going to go?” Jonah demanded, advancing on them.

“Out,” Martin said. He turned and kicked out the ancient, poorly set glass which formed the window on this level of the tower. It fell out easily. And just as easily, with Jon in his arms, Martin fell out after.

It was a fall that could easily have broken Martin’s legs. Jon, after all, couldn’t even carry his own weight on his wings, let alone both of theirs. However, with them spread, he could still catch just enough air to break their fall. It still hurt, of course. Martin bruised and cut himself badly, landing on bare land and grass. He was sure one of his arms was sprained under the weight of both himself and Jon. But they were out, and they were alive. In his good hand, Martin took Jon’s and they began to run.

“Don’t you  _ dare! _ ” Jonah snapped. He leapt straight out after them, focusing his power to ease himself to the ground before breaking into a run.

Weakened and hurt as both of them were, Martin and Jon could not make a particularly expeditious escape. Martin felt his breath grow short in his chest. The mage was gaining on them. He didn’t know if they could make it.

But Jon squeezed Martin’s hand tight. “Trust me,” he whispered. “Just keep your eyes forward, and keep running.”

He would trust him. He was part of the plan too. Part of the team.

“Oh, Jonah,” Jon called, in the same singsong Jonah always used on him. “My  _ dear _ master. I have always been beholden to you, under the power of our master. But I _ think _ you’ll find that your own master no longer favors you so much. And without its favor, well…” He let go of Martin’s hand. He stopped, mid stride, and turned. He fanned his wings, which, while tattered from the fall, still bore so many terrible eyes. Eyes which belonged to the Beholding, and no one else. “Why should you be any less subject to its gaze?”

Martin wanted to wait for him, but he kept running. He trusted Jon. He trusted him.

Behind them, Jonah fell still, stunned. “No. No! That’s not supposed to… you’re not supposed to… you  _ belong _ to me!”

“No, I belong to our master! I was a gift to it, remember? Your gift to it. I was merely on loan to you!” Jon laughed, actually laughed, to be able to for once turn his power, however small, on his tormentor. “You can try to come and claim me if you wish, but you may want to get back on our master’s good side before you try it.” With that, he turned and raced to catch up to Martin, keeping his wings spread behind him. It slowed him a bit, and they were less effective when his back was turned, but they should hold Jonah up just enough to allow their escape.

Martin caught Jon’s hand easily in his as he rejoined him at his side. “Martin, I’m sorry I doubted you, I’m so sorry.”

“We’ll leave it behind us,” Martin said, and squeezed his hand tight. “What’s important is what lies ahead.”

***

A storm gathered over the mage’s tower, dark and green and billowing, as Jonah returned to his home. He was consolidating his power, calling back to him what he had spread thin. He would need to center his strength to rebuild. Eyes narrowed, he marched up the steps to his study. There was a draft within as the wind outside picked up. 

Jonah stood over his cauldron. He poured a pitcher of water in, then took up his sliver blade and pricked his finger. He flicked a drop of blood in and sighed, focusing his intent.

A communication portal opened. On the other side, if hazy, he could see Peter seated at a desk, pouring over scrolls. Peter sighed. “Jonah, you know how I hate when you call me unannounced. I am busy!”

“Yes, and normally I’d delight in your displeasure, but consider this a courtesy call.” Jonah leaned over the mouth of the cauldron, his hands braced on the rim. “Your little prince has gotten a bit big for his britches, and he just might try something daring for once. You might want to… speed up your plans a bit.”

With a skeptical frown, Peter finally looked up from his work to gaze into the communication portal. “Why are you telling me this? I know you’ve had your sights, pardon the pun, on Blackwood as much as I have.”

Jonah rested his arms on the cauldron, shoulders slumped. “Yes, well, let’s just say I’m feeling a bit charitable, and a bit more vindictive than that. If you take care of the Kingdom Blackwood for me, I think I could make use of another kingdom the fairies have been kind enough to wrap up for me in a bow. Leave your quarry no ground to go to, and all that.” He smiled at the thought. “I do so love our wagers. But this time, for once, dear Peter, let us both have our due.” With a wave of his hand, he cut communication. He turned then, moved to the broken window and looked out. All the little upstarts and malcontents were long out of his immediate gaze, but he could still see them. Yes, he could still see them.

Once upon a time, long ago, he had crafted his first pact with the eyes of his queen, his mentor, and his first apprentice. He already had half a mind how he’d like to replace it. 


	24. XXIV: That Which is Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the unexpected hiatus, we've been Going Through It over here. Hope you're all well. 
> 
> Only a few more chapters to go after this. This is all very exciting! When this is done, it will be the longest thing I have ever finished writing. Thanks for coming along with me!

The new camp stood at the Blackwood’s edge, looking out on No Man’s Land. It allowed for a lot more light than staying in the deep of the wood. It also gave a clear view of the sky, and the sickly green clouds increasingly gathering on the horizon. Tim whistled low as he gazed out on it. “That… probably isn’t good, is it?”

“Unlikely,” Jon muttered, stood at his side. “That will be Jonah, preparing to strike back.” He took a deep breath, then turned to Tim. “Thank you. For bringing back Gerry. For not abandoning him to try to fight.”

From the sour little look, it seemed Tim still had some regrets. But he shrugged, rolling his shoulders. “I made a promise, and that’s that.” Glancing back over his shoulder at the cracked glass, he asked, “Is he…”

“He’s still in there,” Jon said, miserably. He wrapped his arms around himself, staring up at the sky. “I am worried about him. There’s so many people that Jonah rendered into inanimate things. I was almost one of them. The isolation… it always breaks them in the end. I know Basira said she found something, I only hope it works, and it’s not already too late.”

Gently, Tim rubbed Jon’s back. “We can only try. And hope.” He studied Jon’s face, then softly asked, “Does it hurt?”

Jon tipped his head, curious, uncertain. 

Tim reached up and tapped at his own cheekbone, just below the eye.

“Oh! Are they still...?”

“Crystal, yeah.” Tim nodded.

The dim light of the overcast day glinted off Jon’s quite literally emerald eyes. “No, no they don’t. Just another mark he’s left on me, I’m afraid. Another mark of ownership.”

Tim scoffed. “Bullshit. He doesn’t own you.”

“Who does own me then, you think?” Jon asked. “You?”

Tim glanced sideward at Jon, seemingly surprised, even appalled at the suggestion. “No. You do.”

It was a nice thought, but Jon offered up a sad smile and said, “Afraid there’s a very powerful magic that says otherwise.”

“Fuck magic.”

Jon slowly raised an eyebrow. “Bold words coming from someone who just found out he’s a sorcerer.”

“Honestly? Fuck that too,” Tim muttered. He could not look at Jon now, crossed his arms and drew in on himself.

Ever so gently, Jon laid a clawed hand on Tim’s bicep, caressed his arm. “Are  _ you _ alright?”

With a forced and jagged grin, Tim said, “Always am, aren’t I?”

“No. But I won’t push you.” Jon gave Tim’s arm a light squeeze before letting go. “Check on Martin for me, would you? We need to get ready.” He turned away from Tim then, turning his back on the brewing storm in the distance and the ire of his master. He approached the far side of camp, where Basira had just finished applying a salve to Daisy’s wounds. Daisy’s breaths shuddered in her sleep with the pain, but at least she breathed at all.

“Will she be okay?” Melanie asked. She had fresh bandages on her shoulder wound, and three times already Georgie had to tell her to stop fussing with it.

“She’s stubborn, she’ll pull through,” Basira remarked. She took a moment to rinse her hands in a water basin. “I didn’t learn much from my mentor in the order, but I did learn a lot about herbs. Including which ones will relieve silver poisoning in a werewolf. To think I told him that was useless… poor bastard.” As she wiped her hands clean, she glanced up from her patient and old friend to regard Jon. “So I have good news and bad news.”

Something like a laugh crept reluctantly out of Jon’s body. “Of course.” He sat down by Daisy and resisted the urge to pat her like she was some dog. She was a woman. More than that, she was quickly becoming something like a friend, considering how much she was willing to do to try to make up for her past, and what she had done to Jon.

Basira picked up the largest of the ancient tomes and gently opened it. It was, of course, slightly water damaged, and brittle from the ages at that. “The text was harder to parse than I anticipated,” she said. “Only about half the text is immediately recognizable. Some of it I can surmise from the oldest forms of the common tongue and neighboring dialects. The rest I have to piece together from context. This hex breaking spell is the only one I finished translating, because I recognized the archaic word for ‘mirror’ and focused on that one. I’m mostly confident about my translation, it should work if the cracks haven’t already put him beyond our saving.”

Jon felt all of his muscles locking up with the tension. “Except?”

“ _ Except _ ,” Basira sighed, “even if we do get him out, there was a bit that said something about either regaining, or catching up. And it might be the case that once out of the mirror, once human again, he’ll… well, age up appropriately.”

“He’ll die,” Jon said softly, doing a translation of his own. He stared miserably at the mirror, the pit in the world that his friend, his love was stuck at the bottom of. He thought of Gerry, lost to the same fate he’d seen befall so many in their tower, isolated into despair and loss of self. It was horrific to think of losing him that way, emerging only to age and expire all at once. But if the other option was an eternity of solitude? Jon hung his head. “We have to do it. I know Gerry, he would rather die than be trapped that way.”

Martin and Tim came to join Jon now, standing to either side of where he sat. Martin reached down to lay a hand on Jon’s shoulder, his arm tied into a splint after the fall. “What do we need?” he asked.

“We need another mirror,” said Basira, “and someone who’s willing to go in after him.”

“I’ll go,” Jon said, firmly.

“Are you sure?” Basira pressed. “There’s no guarantee you’ll be able to find your way back again. You’ll be going into the In Between, a place of raw magic. It might be safe if Tim…”

“Gerry knows me,” Jon interrupted. “He trusts me. He’ll be drawn to me. Tim might have a better chance of navigating, but if anyone can unstick Gerry from that place, I believe it will be me.”

Martin gave Jon’s shoulder the strongest squeeze he could manage with his injury. “Then let us be your anchor.”

At his other side, Tim knelt down. “Here, to guide you back to us. I found it in the tower.” He held out to Jon the little silver butter knife, which he wondered to see, having thought it lost.

“Wait,” Martin piped up, “that’s the one I gave to you, isn’t it?”

“I figured as much,” Tim said, “It’s got your crest on the handle. But listen, Jon, because both Martin and I gave it to you, hopefully, it will be able to guide you back to us.” He shrugged. “Or not. I’m kind of making this up as I go along. But from what I’m  _ told _ , that’s how sorcery works.”

A wry smile twisted across Jon’s face as he clutched the silver handle in his clawed hand. It might be a bit slapdash, but he’d take Tim’s offhanded improvisation over Jonah’s rote and regimented manipulations anyday. “Thank you.”

“Suppose all we need now is to get somewhere with another mirror,” Tim said, pushing himself back up.

At this, Martin lit up. “ _ Or _ , you bring a mirror to us.”

The same realization seemed to strike Basira at the same time as she drew in a sharp breath of realization.

However, Tim’s brows furrowed in frustration. “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

Martin snapped his fingers and pointed at Tim. “You. You’re a sorcerer.”

“Yes, so I’ve gathered.”

“I met another sorcerer!” Martin went on. “He said, he told me… he told me sorcerers can walk through the In Between.”

“Easy as stepping through a door,” Basira agreed. “As long as you’re familiar with the place you’re going, you can get there in an instant, if you focus on it.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Tim, shaking his head. He panned his hands out and pushed aside their eagerness. “If I can walk through the In Between why do we even need the ritual? Why don’t I just step in there and go get Gerry myself?”

Basira leaned forward on her knees. “It’s hard to explain. You can’t really think of the Place In Between as… as a proper place, exactly. Your In Between isn’t necessarily the same as his. It’s a place in the same way that life is a place, that sleep is a place. You can go there, you can travel through it, you can stay or you can leave, but not in the same way as… space. The only way we can meet Gerry in the same In Between is ritualistically.”

Tim squinted at Basira for a long moment before saying, “I do not understand at all but I’ll take your word for it.”

Basira smirked and held up the book, tapping it. “And that’s why you have me.”

Scoffing, Tim shrugged. “Right, fine. Well, I know I saw a mirror at Georgie’s house, so I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t wait up!”

“Be careful with that!” Georgie called after Tim as he strode away. “It was my mum’s!”

“It’s for a good cause!” Tim called. He gave Georgie a quick salute, before crossing behind a tree and disappearing.

Jon whistled, watching him go. “He’s getting good at that  _ awfully _ quick.”

“Too quick,” Basira muttered. “I think it’s making him cocky.”

“Isn’t confidence an important part of sorcery?” Jon asked.

“It’s not the only part.”

Almost as soon as he’d left, Tim returned, mirror cradled in his arms, albeit breathless and visibly exhausted. “Sorry that took so long,” he said. “I got turned around a couple times, and…”

“Tim,” Martin said, voice drawn thin with concern, “you were only gone a minute.” 

This appeared to worry Tim who, paled and strained, set the mirror down gently, leaned up against a tree, only to slump against the tree himself. “I… see.”

Martin hefted a sigh then went to join Tim, rubbing his back and offering up an encouraging smile to restore him. “Hey. You did a great job. Thank you.”

Tim did his best to smile back. “I try. I just… I think I need to sit down a bit.”

While Tim recovered from all his magical travels had taken out of him, Jon and Basira set up the ritual. Carefully they hung up the mirrors opposite each other upon two trees, creating a tunnel of endless reflections between them, albeit somewhat fragmented by the cracks. There was an ache in Jon’s chest to see it, and he prayed it did not disrupt the ritual. Once they were set, Jon dutifully stood between the two mirrors, seeing himself within that tunnel, within that eternity.

Basira took her place and thumbed to the appropriate page. “Okay, I’m going to go ahead and recite the incantation, and we’ll just… hope that I’m getting the pronunciation right. I think I’ve got the idea of it but, we’ll see.”

Jon closed his eyes and braced himself. “Trying something is better than trying nothing at all.”

“Right.” Basira took a deep breath. The next words out of her mouth were unrecognizable to Jon, archaic and strange. Something about the cadence of them, though, seemed almost familiar. He only had a moment to think on it, though.

The air around him became much colder all at once, and he could feel it rippling. Not shifting, not blowing, not like a breeze. Rippling like a pool, but not wet, still air, still open. It was like nothing Jon had ever felt. It was almost pleasant. Almost. Before the cutting set in. Jon let out a strangled cry as he felt a dozen wounds open up across his skin. His eyes snapped open and he gazed down at himself. Blood soaked into his ragged clothes from underneath, and his arms were criss-crossed with slashes. Lines and marks that matched the cracks in the glass. Jon sobbed, less at the pain than the idea of what Gerry must have been living through in this state. 

Around him, the Blackwood had receded. All he could see was a silvery sheen, in the air, in the ground, and beyond it naught but cracks. He wondered at the sight of it. Before all this, had this sky shown Gerry images of the world around him? Was this how he saw all that he saw?

“Gerry?” Jon called out, as loud as he could. His voice echoed all around, as infinite as the reflections as he’d descended into. What the sound bounced off of he could not imagine, as this world seemed so empty and hollow. He cried out again, but it was like tossing a coin off a cliff and listening for a splash. How could you ever hope to make anything out against the distance, against the vastness of the sky and the sea?

Calling aloud would not help him find Gerry. He had to think on him instead. He had to picture him here, hopefully alive, safe as he could be. Dark-haired, tall and lean, and ever so patient with Jon’s nonsense. More patient than he deserved.

“Jon?”

Rounding on his heel, Jon’s emerald eyes widened. 

There he was, looking miserable and exhausted, criss-crossed with scars, pale and barely visible, as though long set in. But he was here. Here with him. And for once, there was nothing between them to stop Jon from gathering him into his arms without a second thought.

Still confused, Gerry fumbled in the attempt to return the gesture. “What are you…? You’re hurt. Jonah didn’t… did he send you here?”

Jon shook his head against Gerry’s shoulder, tears pooling there. “No. No. I came in after you. I’m here to set you free.”

Gerry pushed Jon back then so he could get a good look at his face, study it. “Heavens, you’re serious. How is that possible?”

“I have new friends now. Other mages. A wizard, a sorcerer. They’re helping me.” Jon gathered Gerry’s hand between both of his own. “Listen, you should know… I believe I can get us out of here, but it’s going to be hard, and… Gerry, it might kill you. Leaving this place. We’re not sure.”

“Do it,” Gerry said without a sliver of hesitation. “Either way, I’m free. Just don’t leave me to waste away in here alone.”

“Never,” Jon whispered. He leaned in to kiss Gerry for the first time, so delicately, and marveled at the softness of his lips, the warmth. Then, clasping Gerry’s hand so tight, he rose to his feet. “Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then follow me, and don’t let go.” Jon reached into the folds of his clothes with his free hand and withdrew the knife. Blunt and rounded as it was, he held it out in front of himself as point-first as was possible. 

“How?” Gerry wondered aloud, clinging to Jon. “Everything here is just… more and more of the same.”

“There’s always another side if you keep walking long enough. You just have to keep moving.” Jon could feel a pull, like a magnet, upon the knife, and he followed it, let it guide him, coax him along some unseen path. The trick was not thinking too hard about where he was going, only focusing on holding onto Gerry and pushing forward. He knew, he knew if he tried to pay attention to where he was going in a place like this it would only get him more lost. Trust is what would lead him forward, and the love of his partners and his friends.

In time, Jon felt a resistance ahead of him. He took a deep breath, and he plunged the knife in, and he cut.

The air seemed to shatter around them, powdered glass flying into the air. Though Gerry stood a full head taller than Jon, he reeled him in close and clutched him protectively to his chest. The silver rained down about them, nicking their skin, gathering in their hair and clothes. Jon held Gerry tight as long as he could, sure that any moment now, he too would turn to dust.

But when several moments passed and he still felt Gerry close, felt his heartbeat, felt his body solid in his arms, Jon dared to look. And how lovely he was, in what faint sunlight breached the cloud cover and the Blackwood’s edge. He was dark and pale all at once, and he was silently weeping in joy to see the world. “I can breathe. I can feel. I can see.”

“You’re home,” Jon said with a trembling smile.

***

The group withdrew further into the wood to find more cover. There they came upon a brook where everyone had a chance to wash up from all the blood and broken glass and stress of the recent days. 

How strange it felt, Jon thought, as he sat wringing out his long, freshly untangled hair, to be surrounded by people who loved him. Even before Jonah, he had a hard time making connections and mostly spent time with Georgie or otherwise alone. Now there were so many people here who cared for him, and he cared for all of them. He even had three partners, all sat around him, Tim and Martin eagerly getting to know Gerry. Fortunately, what had caught up with him was not age, but the memories of his youth and his culture that he’d lost over time, history which had been stolen from the world by Jonah’s ritual. He told of the kingdom La Noue which once stood where No Man’s Land is now, of his terrible mother, of the magic and the ravens and the birth of the Order. A place where both he and Jonah had grown up.

“Do you want to try to rebuild your kingdom now?” Tim asked.

Gerry shook his head. “The people there have their own way of living now, their own cultures and customs. Why should I show up after more than a millennium to impose my rule just because of… what, some birthright? No, I just want to live in peace.”

Martin’s face crinkled and he stared down at his feet. “I hope none of you think less of me for seeking my own birthright.”

“Of course not,” Tim said. “It’s clearly less about claiming power than it is about taking it from Peter. I mean, it’s the same with me. I never wanted to be prince regent! I wanted my brother to be, he would’ve been better at it. But he’s gone, and now the usurpers threaten my people. I’m sure they’ve already hurt many. I know they already… they already got… Sasha.” In this quiet, this moment of rest, everything that had happened finally caught up with Tim and he began to sob, doubling over himself and taking his head in his hands. 

As he wept, Jon and Martin gathered in close to either side of him. Martin rubbed his back, Jon laid his head on his shoulder. For a moment, they simply stayed like that, before Jon asked, “Do you want me to check on things for you?”

Fumbling, Tim wiped at his eyes. “I thought you couldn’t see things that clearly?”

“I can at least get an impression,” said Jon. “If I focus, I can make out some details. Especially… well, especially if I’m worried. I can’t promise it will be pretty, but we can get a sense of what to prepare you for, after we’ve gone to take care of Peter and collect Martin’s armies.”

Tim nodded and leaned against Martin. “Alright. Do it. I need to be ready.”

“Almost makes me wish I still had my abilities,” Gerry muttered, rubbing his arm. “Not quite. Not for what they cost me. But almost.”

Dutifully, Jon lowered his head and spread his wings to gather power. He focused his sight, the concern he had for Tim, and he saw… and he saw…

There was a rush of glimpses in his head. Cruelly laughing fairies puppeting castle staff, drinking and making merry as entire villages danced to their death. He saw, too, the silhouette of some unknown fairy regent communing with Jonah. They were arranging some kind of deal. On the other side of the wood, Jon saw a glimpse of Peter too, dissipating people into mist en masse, then calling the people to arms against Martin and the Beast for the crime. When Jon roused himself from the depth of his vision he came to with a scream.

Wearily, Tim said, “That good, huh?”

“Gather the others,” Jon said, breathless. “Our enemies are on the move. All of them.”

Martin winced. “Oh. Oh gods. Okay. Um.” He clapped his hands and circled the camp. “Meeting! Everyone, meeting.”

The others gathered in. With the salve upon her wound, Daisy was on her feet again, her human feet at that, and healing quickly. Melanie was a bit worse for wear without the fast healing which came with magic and monstrousness, but looked nonetheless determined.

Georgie took a seat right beside Gerry and offered him a smile. “Thank you for looking after Jon for me,” she said.

“Thank you for looking after yourself for him,” Gerry replied.

With everyone circled around, Jon and Martin stood before the group. “Peter, Jonah, and the Fae are all taking action. I fear if we don’t strike against our enemies, at once, we may lose both Blackwood and Faege in one fell swoop.”

“At the same time?” Georgie said. “How! We don’t have those kinds of numbers!”

“If we can’t fight back in force, then we have to strike smart,” Martin said, “Stealth, subterfuge, persuasion, these are our weapons.”

“You’ll need diplomats on your side, my king,” said Georgie. “Melanie and I will go with you. We’ve both made a living out of big talk.”

“I want to be there when Jonah Magnus dies,” Gerry interjected, firmly, grimly, clenching his fists.

“I wish I could go too,” said Jon miserably. He rubbed his arm. “I… well, I’m worried it’s not safe. Not so long as Jonah and the Beholding have any power over me. I fear I might be dead weight in this fight, or worse. Honestly, I’ve begun to worry that unless I can be freed from the powers that hold me, I can’t even be a healthy partner to any of you.”

Scowling, Basira slapped the book. “If only I could translate the damned thing faster. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time before--”

“Wait,” Gerry interrupted. He leaned forward, hand outstretched, and stopped just short of snatching it from her. “Let me see that.”

Hesitant from her librarian’s training to relinquish such a delicate tome to just anyone, Basira asked, “Why?”

A grin broke on Gerry’s often sullen face. “Because I’d know that book anywhere. That’s the Grimoire of the Wizard Robinson. I was her ward, she taught me everything I knew. A complicated woman, not the kindest nor the most merciful, but she saw the wicked magics overtaking our kingdom and worked hard to catalogue every counterspell and hex breaking ritual she could find.” Gladly he accepted the book from Basira and flipped through it as quickly as he could without damaging the delicate pages. “Okay, let’s see… Ectoplasm, Use Of… Enchantment… Entrapment, I’m guessing that’s the section you used to free me… Familiars, Bestial… okay! Familiars, Human. Here.” He tapped it.

“You can read that?” Basira said. “I mean, I’m guessing it’s your native language, but the text is barely legible from water damage.”

“I mean, it’s a bit hard to read… but the pieces I can’t make out I can still remember,” Gerry said, marveling at what he saw. “The old lady made me read this thing cover to cover five times. For my protection, she said.” He looked up, beaming, tearing up. “Jon, do you know what this means?”

Jon was speechless, glancing around at his wide-eyed and excited friends and beloveds. He could not process the notion.

“We can set you free,” Martin said, gleefully. He laid a hand on Jon’s cheek. “He won’t be able to control you anymore! You can stand up to him! You can fight with us! You can kill him for all he’s done!”

Jon was shaking. It hadn’t seemed possible for so long. “That…”

“The catch,” Gerry said, sinking a bit in his seat as he reviewed the book, “is that it’s going to hurt. We… well, we have to cut off your wings.”

Jon’s heart dropped into his stomach. “You don’t think I tried that before? It’s not going to work.”

“I know, I saw you do it, Jon,” Gerry said. He rose to his feet. “It was never going to work when you tried it by your own hand. Someone else needs to do it.”

“The wings will paralyze anyone who tries,” Jon argued. “The Beholding will want to protect its vessel.”

“Then we have to work together,” Tim said. He drew his blade, polished and bright. 

Now Martin gathered Jon’s face in both his hands. “Just focus on me,” he whispered. “Don’t let it into your head. Think only on me, on us.”

So Jon did his best. He met Martin’s gaze, let his love hang heavy in his head and heart, where it took up so much of him it left no room for anything else. He let his wings spread wide, exposing the base of them as much as he could, and though they trembled a bit they unfortunately did their job. 

Tim struggled to lift his sword caught in their stare, even stood behind Jon. “Oh, this is going to be slow. I am so sorry.”

Jon braced himself as best he could for the pain. With that fear he could almost feel the beholding breaking into his thoughts, whispering to him in a language he did not, could not know. Telling him to hurt the ones who would liberate him.

But Gerry joined him Tim his side. “Then close your eyes,” he said. “And let me guide you. I still have a bit of the demon’s touch lingering on me. Enough that the wings can’t hold me.”

“You’re doing great,” Martin’s voice asserted itself over the voice of the Ceaseless Watcher. He kissed Jon’s forehead, tucked his hair back. Claimed possession of him with tiny little affections. “You’re doing so good. Stay with me. I promise we’ll make it quick.”

“Alright, here,” Gerry said.

“Don’t listen to them, listen to me,” Martin said.

Jon could feel himself trying to pull away, though he did not ask to. He struggled for control of himself.

“Okay,” Tim said, “3… 2…”

“I love you,” Martin said, reaching to grip one of Jon’s arms as the other hand stayed to caress his face.

The cut came, and Jon felt it through all of him. Though it was but a narrow strip of flesh that connected the wing, its severing he felt down to his bones and further, down into his being. And he howled. With his free hand he unthinkingly lashed out, slashed at Martin with his claws.

Calmly, eyes shut, Martin accepted the glancing blow to his cheek. “You’re alright, you’re going to be alright.” He held Jon tighter.

“Okay, Tim, here, here, there’s no time for a countdown, he’s moving too much, make it quick.”

A sound, an inhuman screech came out of Jon. He felt himself fading, being swallowed up inside the monster that was overtaking him. Was this really freeing him, or would it destroy him?

He gnashed and scratched and struggled with Martin, trying to attack him, to release himself from his grip.

If this didn’t work, he hoped his beloveds would have the strength to put him down when he lost himself, when he finally became the monster in truth. 

There was another gash of pain, white-hot and deep, and Jon’s awareness went dark. At least Gerry was free. At least Jonah couldn’t use either of them anymore.

***

“Jon? Jon, please wake up.”

“It’s okay. Okay, look, he’s breathing.”

“Yeah he’s breathing but is it him?”

“Oh, Jon, please…”

Jon shifted and roused. His whole body ached, and there was still a sharp pain at his shoulderblades. But whatever had overtaken his body and mind in those moments… it was gone. His eyes fluttered open, and he heard Martin gasp.

“What?” Jon whispered.

“Your eyes,” Martin said, his tears brimming. “They’re…”

“Human,” Tim said, smiling down at him.

“Maybe a bit greener than you had before,” Gerry offered. “But… yeah.”

All three were gathered around where he was cradled in Martin’s lap. In quiet disbelief, Jon lifted his hands to his face. And he saw his fingertips, and his fingernails. With an astounded sob and years upon years of relief he lunged up and caught Martin in his arms. “I’m a person,” he choked out.

Martin returned the embrace gladly, tightly. “You always were.”

“I wish there were time to celebrate,” Jon said, “But… we need to move. I have quite a lot I have to repay Jonah for.”

“You and me both,” said Gerry. He reached and took Jon’s all-too-human hand. “It’s going to be you and me. No one knows the tower better than either of us. Tim needs to take the other mage with him against the fae, and Martin will be facing possible armies, so the werewolf is with him.”

“But I have a piece of me to send with you both,” Tim offered. He turned aside. “While Jon was unconscious, I… well I blessed something for each of you.” He offered a single, unassuming arrow to Martin. “It’s guaranteed to strike true. Use it well.” Then he smirked, and turned to Jon. He pressed something into his hands. “And for you, this. What better weapon against a man so arrogant.”

Jon grinned back. “I guarantee he won’t see this coming.”

“I just wish there was something we could send with you,” said Martin. 

“Send your love, and all you have taught me about patience,” Tim said. “I am going to need it.”

Around the camp, the others were packing, preparing. With the tents all rolled up, Georgie turned to Martin. “We are ready to march on your word, my king.”

Martin sighed, and slid closer to Tim and Gerry, Jon still held in his arms. “Five minutes,” he said. “Our enemies have taken so much from us already. We can take five minutes for ourselves.”

It might, after all, be the last five minutes the four of them got to spend together. The only five minutes of peace they would know together. In a world that was conspiring against them, it was all they could do to gratefully accept just a couple moments that were theirs alone, huddled together in the dark of the Blackwood. Peace was always so fleeting, but so sweet to have and to hold. 


	25. XXV: What's In A Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes this week. Just love.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Basira asked.

“Absolutely not,” Tim said brightly, grinning at her and gripping her arm tight.

“Thanks,” Basira said, “that’s really reassuring.”

“You’re welcome!”

Tim squared off against the open air. The other groups had already struck out, while he had both the furthest and the least distance to travel. No one, Basira insisted, had ever brought someone with them through the In Between to another place. Tim had argued that just because it had never happened did not mean it was not possible. Besides, desperate times called for desperate measures, and he certainly was desperate. Yet, he could not help but recall the time he’d spent wandering the In Between when he was fetching the mirror. The way time seemed to stretch. He tried not to let it hamper him as he strode forward, arm in arm with Basira, and pressed through the veil of reality. It broke around them like a flimsy film, and they passed through the shimmering of the In Between. 

It was hard to describe this place which wasn’t a place. Every time you tried to look at the world around you too closely, it looked different. You couldn’t afford to look anyway, lest you distract yourself from your path. This was what had gotten Tim into trouble the first time. He became a sightseer, lost in the realm of his own magic. Now he had to ignore all that was around him, the shifting sights and colors, the textures and the scents, and focus only on the one thought in his mind: home.

For her own part, Basira merely kept her eyes closed and let herself be led. If she were to get fixated on anything in this place, they worried she may be lost somewhere she’d never be found again.

But Tim knew what he needed. He knew what he’d been seeking for a long time. He knew where he needed to go to get it. Home, home, home.

When first they emerged from the ether, Tim was at first merely relieved he’d successfully brought Basira through. Then he was confused, because this wasn’t his castle at all. There were wide-open spaces, and the sky hung purple and shimmered strangely. Had they done away with the castle entirely? Spirited it to some other realm, or razed it?

Then he turned about, and saw the library, standing tall and proud as ever. There was a pressure in his chest, squeezing at his heart. Sasha. His subconscious had taken him straight to Sasha.

Poor Sasha. He’d abandoned her to her fate. He still wished he could have convinced her to run with him.

“Tim, are you…?”

“I’m fine,” Tim spat, wiping at his eyes. “Come on, we’ve got a job to do.”

No sooner had Tim begun marching, however, than he heard that familiar old voice. “Tim? Is that you?”

Instantly, Tim’s sword was drawn and he rounded on the thing which now wore Sasha’s face, the blade to her throat. “What have you done with her?” he growled.

Rather than smug, this Sasha appeared quite startled, until realization settled upon her shoulders and she took a step back. “So you met my mimic then.”

“Oh, yeah right, and I suppose you want me to believe that you’re the original,” Tim said, advancing on her.

“I do, yes.”

“Prove it,” Tim said. The tip of the blade was on her skin now, just at her collarbone, over the pendant she wore. 

The thing which seemed to be Sasha pursed her lips and considered, seemingly unbothered by the sword to her throat, and eventually said, “When you were six, we were playing in my room, and I called you a coward. To prove how brave you were, you said you would spend five minutes alone in the dark in my bureau. It was only a minute before you bolted out, screaming, saying something had grabbed you. But it was just one of my dolls falling on your shoulder.”

Basira snorted.

Blushing, Tim sheathed his sword. “Okay, well, you didn’t have to go with  _ that _ memory.”

With a brilliant smile, Sasha said, “Who but me would go straight for the most embarrassing memory I could think of?”

“Oh, Sasha,” Tim sighed, and lunged forward to seize her into a hug. “How have you survived all this time?”

“A funny thing I learned about Changelings,” said Sasha, “is that if you learn to blend in well enough, sometimes even the fairies forget which of you is the copy and which is the original, so they just leave you well enough alone.” She glanced about, then drew him in close. “What are you doing here, though? It’s not safe. Did you find help?”

“About that,” Tim said. “The Mage Magnus is evil. Thought you should know.”

Sasha frowned and tipped her head. “Who said anything about the Mage Magnus?”

“ _ You _ did.”

As whatever power hung over the Order kicked in, Tim saw Sasha’s eyes glaze over. “Did I?”

“Nevermind that,” Basira butted in, nudging past Tim. She held out a hand. “Wisdom before knowledge.”

“And knowledge before action,” Sasha finished the greeting with a grin and shook Basira’s hand. “A long time since I’ve seen another librarian. Come with me, both of you. I’ve covered the library in wards, we should be safe in there for a time.”

“Yeah, Sash, this is my friend, Basira,” said Tim, following eagerly at Sasha’s heels.

Basira trailed behind them, watching their backs. “And I’m glad to see another of the Order myself. I think you can help me, if you dare to try your hand at some wizardry.”

“I’m here to liberate my people and win back my throne,” Tim said. “And Basira’s here to help, with-- ow!” Tim hissed through his teeth as he crossed the threshold, a jolt of pain rolling down his spine.

Sasha frowned, concerned. “Oh. Listen, Tim, you should know, I’ve been doing my research and I think… well, I’ve sorted out your heritage.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Tim, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nice wards.”

“Thanks. A fullborn fairy won’t be able to cross it, but I didn’t think to warn you.”

“No, it’s fine.” He turned to her, shoulders slumped. “So… you know.”

Offering him up an encouraging smile, Sasha led them to the library basement, where stacks of books formed the sort of fort she and Tim might’ve built when they were children. She sat down on a cushion amidst them. “You don’t need to make it sound like a dirty secret, Tim. Not all fairies are the same, just like any other people. Ah… you should know your sword, too… it was forged to be wielded by fairies and their descendants, after all, so it’s neither steel nor iron. It’s silver. Effective against many monsters, but not against your present foes, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tim replied, eyes narrowing. “I’ve taken care of that.”

“And you can help me take care of the rest,” said Basira, settling down opposite Sasha. “Have you ever tried your hand at divination?”

“No, but I’ve studied the theory,” Sasha said. “I’ve had plenty of time holed up in here to research my fair share about magic. It seemed… prudent.”

Basira nodded. From a leather pouch she withdrew some chalk, and drew a complex circle between them on the stone floor. “Right, well… there’s one thing we’re missing and you can help me find it. He can’t, because for all of our friend’s sorcery, he’s a useless ass when it comes to ritual.”

“Hey!” Tim said, dropping a book on woodland beasts he’d just picked up. “Maybe if you’d let me try…”

“Sorcery and ritual don’t tend to mix,” Basira insisted. “Sorcery thrives on the chaos of raw magic, but that doesn’t tend to get reliable divination results. That requires discipline, structure. That’s why you need a wizard… or two.” She turned to Sasha.

Holding herself up with confidence, Sasha extended her hands to Basira. “I’m ready. What are we seeking?”

“The location, identity, and True Name of the fairy regent and the traitor who sold out the castle to them. And tell you what, Tim, you  _ can  _ help us a bit, since you’re so eager.”

“Oh?” Tim asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It helps to have something connected to what you’re trying to scry for, it will bring you closer to the answers. And since you  _ do _ share a bloodline with the fairy regent, well…” Basira tapped the center of the circle. “Your blood, if you please.”

“You’re serious.”

“Well, if you don’t want to…” Basira said flatly, knowing full well she needn’t finish the sentence.

Sure enough, Tim was already drawing a dagger from his belt. He bit his lip, but it wasn’t quite enough to distract from the pain when he jabbed into his fingertip. He let the blood run down the edge of the blade, then dropped the whole thing in the middle of the ritual circle. “That do?”

“Thank you,” Basira said.

Tim closed his eyes and took a deep breath to brace himself. Answers he’d been waiting on a long time were soon to come. Focusing his magic and his energy, he got the wound to close, mostly, but it still scabbed and it still stung like anything.

The women closed their eyes too, joining hands around the circle. Softly they chanted under their breaths, so soft and so quiet Tim could not make out the words. What he could make out, as he cracked his eyes to take a peek, was the way the circle between them glowed. He stood, hypnotized by its shimmer. Jealous as he was not to take part in this fact-finding mission, he had to admire their work, and was glad that his friends were already working so well together. And so relieved, also, that Sasha yet lived.

How glad he would be to make her an advisor to his and Martin’s courts, when all of this was over. A liaison to the Order, perhaps.

It wasn’t long before Sasha gasped as though breaking the surface of the water, her eyes snapping open wide. 

Tim wanted to rush to her side, but didn’t dare break the ritual if it was still happening. “Are you… okay?”

“The same!” she choked out, still gathering her breath into her chest. Her breath had no chance though, because the words came spilling out too quickly. “They’re… they’re the same. The regent and the traitor both. She was in the castle the whole time. You invited her in so no enchantment could keep her out. She wore the protections down from within, all while living among you. Your court jester, Nikola.”

“Nikola!?” Tim said. He remembered hearing her voice, that day… he’d assumed it was another Changeling. 

“This is her true name,” said Basira, rising from the ritual much more calmly. She jotted it down on a scrap of paper and handed it over to Tim. “Speak it and you’ll have power over her… but not for long against a royal, so make it count.”

Tim took a deep breath, gathering his strength and courage. He read the name once, twice, thrice, then crushed the paper and left it on the floor. Safer to carry it in his head than on his person, he thought. 

It was real now. He had to do it. He was going to face her. For all his thirst for revenge, why was he so scared now? Maybe because he had so much more to lose than he had when he first set out. “Right. Alright. I guess this is it.”

“Do you want us to come back you up?” Sasha asked.

Tim shook his head. “No, I want you to stay here, stay safe. If I don’t come back, make a break for Blackwood and pray that Martin succeeded where I failed.”

Sasha’s face twisted with want for protest, but she didn’t speak it. Instead she closed in and gave him a tight hug. “Let this not be our last meeting.”

As their embrace parted, Basira placed a firm hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I need you to stay cocky,” she said. “Don’t go doubting yourself now.”

“Never thought I’d hear that from you,” said Tim with a smirk.

Basira sighed and shrugged. “Yeah, well… maybe I like you better with too much confidence than not enough. And maybe I like you better alive than dead.”

“I’ll do my best not to get dead then,” said Tim. He took one last look at them, then made his way out. Made his way home.

***

The castle was nigh unrecognizable. It stood choked and tangled in vines and branches, a mountain of brush and bramble on the hill. Tim knew it only by the roads which led to it, spiraling into the walls of greenery. With his sword he cut and hacked his way through as though clearing his way into a jungle. But when he felt the stone underfoot, he remembered how it felt running through these halls as a child with his brother, and he knew he was back. Swallowing down tears and rage, he moved forward. 

Besides the vines which tried desperately to entangle him and the thorns which slashed at his ankles, Tim found his way surprisingly unhindered. Obviously because it was a trap. They wanted him to get in too deep to run before they killed him. Joke was on them, though, for he had no intention to run.

It took a few tries to make his way to the throne room. The paths were not as he remembered, even accounting for the new walls of hedges. Magic had twisted this place, kept trying to turn him around and lose him. If he focused, though, he could warp that magic too, bend it to his will. This place was his, it just had to be reminded as much.

When finally he found it, the throne room stood surprisingly well-lit and open. At the far end, in the gilt and mahogany throne where once his mother sat was Nikola, grinning ghoulishly back at him. She was still painted up as a fool as she ever was, legs kicked up disrespectfully over the arm of the seat. Now how hollow her smile looked, how inhuman her eyes. It should have been obvious, but the exaggerations of her makeup always distracted from how strange her features truly were. Nothing, nothing at all stood between Tim and Nikola. She clearly intended for him to charge her. There was a time when once he would have. Now he knew better than to rush in. Besides, with his powers fully awakened, he could feel the energy of dozens of traps between him and her. “Hello, Nikola,” he said with a dark and vicious cheer.

“Prince Timothy, it’s been far too long!” she said, springing up to her feet. “What’s the matter? Cold feet? Why don’t you come give your old jester a hug?”

“Actually, I was wondering if we might play a game?” Tim called, still stood rooted in the doorway. “I know your kind loves games.”

“My kind?” asked Nikola. She danced her way to the center of the room, weaving between her own traps. “Fools?”

“No,” said Tim.

Nikola smirked at that. “Hm. Very well, little prince. What did you have in mind? Charades? Blind man’s bluff?”

“A duel of riddles, actually,” said Tim. “And I’ll wager you, too.” Wits, Jon had told him. Fairies had a hard time resisting a challenge of wits. It was the only grounds on which they’d be evenly matched. That is, until Tim could make it to the right position.

“Very well,” said Nikola. “What might you wager?”

“For each riddle of yours I get right,” said Tim, “you tell me a safe place to step to get me closer to you.”

“Agreed,” said Nikola. She placed a finger to her cheek and leaned in mock consideration. “Hmm… oh! And for each of your riddles I guess, you must tell me one of your fears! And you must be honest, do  _ please _ be honest. I’d like to know how best to  _ entertain _ you when we are reunited.”

“Agreed,” Tim replied. He gave her a bow, and it sickened him to do so, but he had to play along. “Well, care to ask first? It  _ is _ your castle, after all.” Let her keep thinking she had the upper hand as long as he could.

Nikola hopped up and down, giggling and clapping. “Oh, what fun. Yes, yes! Let me see, let me see…” She planted her chin in her hands, tapped her brightly rouged cheeks, then spoke. “Ah! Tell me, little prince, tell me… The one who buys it never uses it, but the one who uses it never knows they are using it. Of what do I speak?”

Tim smiled back at her. He thought of long days in the castle with Sasha, challenging each other with riddles. She’d often brought him to frustration, so much better at it than he. But Tim always learned from the best. “Too easy,” he said. “A coffin. That’s not a *threat* is it?”

“Me?” Nikola cooed, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why, never! Alright, little prince, as promised. Hop over the threshold onto the Pyrrhan rug between us, that will be your first safe space.”

With a quick jump Tim made it with ease. “Right. My turn, then.” His eyes glinted, remembering one Sasha had pressed on him long ago. “What is greater than the gods and more wicked than demons? What do the poor have, the rich need, and the contented desire? What is it that, when you eat it, you die?”

“I daresay poison,” Nikola ventured, wandering in a small little circle, “for I can think of many a rich man who needs it, and it is a wicked thing with the power to overturn nations.”

“I’ll agree with you, mostly, but what contented man wishes for poison?” asked Tim, crossing his arms. “Sorry, but the answer is nothing!”

There came a sharpness to Nikola’s expression, like that of a trodden snake. She hissed appropriately too. “I still think I was right enough, but very well! I will forfeit my winnings this round. My turn, and I believe I’ve thought a good one. Tell me, tell me. Ripped from my mother’s womb, burned and beaten, I am turned into a bloodthirsty killer. What  _ am _ I?” She fluttered her lashes.

Grizzly, that, and not one he’d heard. But if the pattern Nikola was following was using her wordplay to taunt him, then it was likely something she meant to lord over him. “Ah!” Tim said. “It is iron, is it not? Dug from the earth and forged.”

“Indeed!” Nikola chirped. She planted her hands on her hips. “But your sword… why, they say that it is silver! Isn’t that lovely?”

“So I’ve heard!” Tim said brightly. Good. Then she still believed he couldn’t touch her, even if he reached her. Maybe he wouldn’t. He’d only have a second. “My prize, please?”

Nikola sighed. “Very well. From the end of the rug, step forward three stones and over one, as a knight in chess moves.”

Striding ever closer, Tim said, “Right, in that case… I am an evil which most men fear. I am a blessing when the end is near. All will knock upon my door, but when I answer they may beg for more. What am I?”

Scoffing, Nikola replied. “Death. So simple. Tell me, Prince Timothy, do you fear death?”

“No,” Tim replied. “But I do fear what my death would mean for others. My people, what would become of them when I’m gone, and none are left to challenge for the throne.”

At that, Nikola pouted. “No fair. I can’t work with a fear like that! I wanted you to say something like… spiders or sickness or being buried alive!”

“You asked me to be honest,” said Tim with a shrug. “Your turn?”

“Fine,” Nikola muttered. She glared at the narrowing distance between them. “Hm… oh! What is it that belongs to you, but others use it more than you?”

That one Tim had  _ definitely _ heard from Sasha before. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

Nikola laughed. “Yes! At least, for a human. A fairy’s name is rarely used at all!”

“Interesting,” Tim said.

“Right.” Nikola pointed. “Now cross diagonally right to here, right under the chandelier.”

Tim shifted into position, standing across from her now. His breath was short. He would only have one shot. Riddle. He needed a riddle. Lowering his head, he focused his mind. “Hm… what is something you’re desperate to have when you don’t have it, but once you’ve got it, most only want to give it away?”

“A secret!” Nikola gleefully squealed. She clapped her hands together. “Do you have a secret for me prince? A little fear deep inside your heart?”

“Losing my partners,” Tim answered earnestly. He’d pay her with his honesty, she might know if he was lying outright. “They’re most of what I have for family now that, well…”

“Ah yes,” chirped Nikola. “Prince Martin, and the little moth. The Mage Magnus told me about them.”

Cold shot through Tim’s body. “You’ve spoken to him.”

“I have, I have indeed! He was most eager to make a deal, was the Mage Magnus. And me, I do love to trade!” She closed the distance between them herself, seeing Tim paralyzed so. Before Tim could move, she gripped him by the collar of his tunic and pulled him close. “My turn?”

Tim swallowed. He gripped the hilt of his blade, but he remembered how deftly the fairy he’d faced before had dodged. If she decided to give up the game already, it might be over for him. 

“Tell me, tell me, little prince,” Nikola whispered. “What’s my name?”

With that, Tim felt relief rushing in. This was his chance. His one chance. “That’s trivia,” he said, feigning offense, “not a riddle.”

“My castle, my rules.” Nikola poked his nose, playfully, as his mother had done to him so many times as a child. “Tell me. What. Is. My. Name? Can you guess?”

Tim stared right through her. “Orsinov.”

Nikola froze, her playful smirk collapsing under its own weight. “What?”

“Now hold still,” Tim snarled, giving the one order he had time to give. In one fluid motion, he drew his sword and thrust. Still, he did not see the shock cross Nikola’s face until the point of it came out the other side of her. His sword, silver, built for a fairy’s hands… but hexed by his own against a fairy’s flesh. It struck true, and Tim came face to face with her as she drew her dying breath. “For my family,” he whispered.

She had no witty reply. She had only to crumble into fairy dust and fall to the floor.

Around him, the castle rumbled. Tim braced himself, dropping his sword, fearful the whole place was about to collapse. But then he saw the vines and branches outside dying and shrinking away. Without Nikola’s lifeforce behind the magic, all the enchantments were falling away. Tim collapsed, breathless as it all melted away. Could it really be over? Just like that?

“Ah, so that’s what happened.” A strange voice spoke, a voice like an echo, like dozens speaking at once.

Tim turned toward the voice abruptly.

An unfamiliar figure strode in, footfalls so light they didn’t even seem to quite touch the ground. “You are the prince regent?”

Unsteadily, Tim rose to his feet, plucking up his sword. “Who are you?”

“Relax,” said the figure, holding up a hand. “We have no quarrel with you. All of the spite and petty jealousy was the late queen’s alone, and it died with her. I am myself the heir to our throne. I shan’t hand you my true name so easily, but you may call me… the Anglerfish.”

“Okay, weird,” said Tim. He lowered his blade but did not drop it just yet. “And you’re  _ not _ here for revenge?”

“Hardly. This is but the consequences our queen brought down on her own head. We have no interest in your mortal kingdom, nor your mortal life. We have come to offer a truce.”

Tim had a hard time believing that, and part of him wanted to strike out, to get ahead of any possible danger. Yet in his ear, he could almost hear Martin whispering,  _ Patience, love. If peace is freely offered, take it. _ Sighing, Tim put away his sword. “How do I know that your people won’t try something like this again?”

“How do we know that you won’t seek further vengeance?” the Anglerfish questioned in reply. “We don’t and neither do you. Not even the most powerful of mages can reliably tell the future. You only have our word, as we have yours. Still, I hope we can agree that a queen for a queen is a sufficient end to the violence.”

“Myself and mine lost far more than a queen,” Tim said. “I lost a brother. My people were tormented.”

Hands outstretched, the Anglerfish said, “Then we offer you two boons instead, in lieu of violence.”

Bitterly, Tim set his jaw and swallowed his medicine. Martin had better be proud of him for taking the high road, for taking revenge only as far as it had to go. “Very well. First thing I ask you: make no bargains nor allegiances with the Mage Magnus.”

“Agreed,” said the Anglerfish with a nod that seemed to ripple through the air. “Whatever dealings our late queen had with Magnus were not our own, and we’ve no interest in them. Your second boon?”

Tim considered this a moment longer. Then a grin broke across his face. “I believe my people have good reason to fear you. When your people choose to grace the mortal lands, would you favor perhaps the United Kingdom of Alveare rather than my own principality? I believe Queen Jane still fancies my hand in marriage, and as I soon intend to be wed to another, I could use something of a… distraction.”

“Human borders mean little to us,” said the Anglerfish. “But I do believe my own people would delight in the excuse for mischief. So, agreed, I shall shepherd them there. I hope these favors put an end to the bad blood between our kingdoms.”

“Me too,” said Tim. “I’m tired of fighting.” He gazed out the window, out at the horizon. “But I need to check on some things before I can rest. I trust you can see yourself out?”

“Of course,” said the Anglerfish. They took a bow which distorted the air around them. “Good day, your grace, Prince Timothy of House Stoker, Prince Regent of Faege. Long may you reign.”

“Here’s hoping,” Tim muttered. He stepped towards the window, and out it, into the In Between. First, he would have to check up on Basira and Sasha, let them know he was alright. Then, he would have to make his way back to that awful tower, where Jon and Gerry might need his support. 

Fortunately, this time, he could make it a much shorter journey.


	26. XXVI: The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.
> 
> Here it is!

It stood out against the landscape like a thorn in Jon’s chest. Looking upon it, it hurt just as much. The tower. Some inner voice still echoed in the hollow in him, calling it home. But it wasn’t home. Jon knew what home was. Home was where you were loved. Home was anywhere but here. Desperately Jon wished to be anywhere but here. Just like any thorn, though, it had to be pulled out before they could clean the infection.

Jon and Gerry knelt where, unknown to them, their friends and lovers had once laid in wait before saving them. The brush here would not hide them. Surely he already knew they were here, even with his power waning. There was no hope for a surprise attack. Neither could they hope to lure him out into the open. No, he would make them come to him, to his fortified position. This left them with few options. One, really.

“Are you sure,” Jon asked, his voice shaking, for the fifth time since they’d left.

“Yes,” said Gerry. For his part, he didn’t look the least bit afraid. He looked determined, maybe even a little eager. “Jon, it  _ has _ to be me. I’ve been alive a very long time. Maybe too long. You gave me a few last beautiful moments of freedom. If, really  _ when _ , this all goes wrong… I want it to be me who takes the fall, not you. I’m ready to rest. You have so much more to see and do. I want that for you.”

Jon was shivering, though the day was warm and muggy. Holding back his tears, he turned and pressed a kiss to Gerry’s lips. “If I can save you…” He said, the instant their lips parted.

But Gerry shushed him with another quick peck, then smoothed back Jon’s graying hair. “Don’t let him use me to force your hand. Do what has to be done, Jon. I’m going to give him hell for you, but you have to send him there. Okay? For me. For both of us. For the world.”

Jon took a deep breath to steady himself, then nodded. “Right. Right. If this is goodbye, then… thank you, my love. For everything. I won’t let anyone forget you. Not again.”

“I know,” Gerry said, softly. He kissed Jon’s forehead, then marched on the tower with his head held high.

Jon could do nothing, not yet. Only watch. Only wait. Gerry was the distraction, the bait, something to keep Jonah’s attention and ire occupied long enough for Jon to strike. If they had gone together, Jonah could have gotten the drop on them both. After all, if a group of five couldn’t properly overwhelm him, why should two. 

Only one option.

Jon mouthed the words “I love you” as Gerry disappeared behind that gnarled old door.

And he waited.

Years of habit taught Jon exactly how long it should take to ascend those stairs to the study. They assumed he was in the study, hard at work to consolidate his power. There was even a thin trail of smoke billowing from the still broken window, though hard to see against the cloudy sky. Jon allowed for a bit of extra time, for any traps Gerry might trigger, for a scuffle. Then he bolted.

With every footfall his heart hammered hard. The strip of dry, packed earth between him and the tower seemed to stretch out before him, and he wondered if magic was pulling the tower from him before his hands finally fell to the door. Jon’s breath was so heavy he struggled to swallow it, and his hands fell asleep from the shaking. Fumbling, he managed to get the door open. 

Stepping across that threshold, for what he hoped was the last time, Jon felt so cold. He froze in the entryway. That overwhelming sense of freedom he’d felt after being stripped of his wings--which still he carried strapped to his back with his pack--was lost on him standing here. 

Then he heard Gerry scream. Without a second of thought, indeed before he knew what he was doing, Jon was already running up the stairs. He could feel the impact of each stone step in his teeth. Around the spiral stairs, up past storage, up past the living quarters. The echo was deafening. Surely Jonah could hear him coming. But surely he’d know he was coming either way. This almost felt like a fool’s errand.

But for once, for once in his life, Jon knew something Jonah didn’t.

Maybe he’d known it all along.

When Jon came to the third story landing, the door was hanging wide open in a way it never was, inviting him in as the jaws of an alligator invited in prey. He went in all the same, of course, prepared for them to snap shut at any second.

Within those wretched chambers, where once Jon had his humanity, his freedom stolen from him, Jonah stood, his back to the door. He had Gerry down on his knees, bound and paralyzed by some unseen magic. 

The cauldron was boiling and ready, and Jon was nauseous to see it, to smell the smoke and feel its heat even from where he stood.

Defiant even in forced supplication, Gerry glared up at Jonah. Despite Jonah’s hand bunched in his dark hair. Despite the knife blade held to his cheek and the blood running down. “Go ahead,” he snarled, “do it.”

“Just wait,” said Jonah, with a dripping fondness in his voice. “I want him to see. I want him to know he did this to you. I want it to be the last thing he knows, before he joins you. Then his other lovers after him.”

“You could have made a new pact already in the time it’s taken us to reach you,” Gerry said, making no effort to shy away from the blade. “You could have secured your bond with your master already, guaranteed your power.”

“But this is personal,” Jonah said. “For something so important, it  _ should _ be personal, really.” He glanced back over his shoulder, caught the barest glimpse of Jon’s frame in the door, and smiled at him before returning his attention to Gerry. “Well then… ready to follow in your mother’s footsteps?”

“He is,” said Jon. “But are you ready to fail?” With that, he cast his broken wings down at Jonah’s heels.

Jonah relinquished his grip on Gerry to turn and look on the torn, battered things. It wasn’t as though Gerry could run, after all, not with the spell that bound him. Jonah laughed to see the wings. “My god, you’ve really done it.” He stepped over them, advanced on Jon. “You’ve both so callously rejected the gifts I’ve given you. Rejected your power, your immortality. Now you can only bleed and die as any man would.”

“So can you,” said Jon, quietly. He stood rooted to the spot. Did not run. Did not charge. Waited. Waited as Jonah always waited.

He made Jonah come to him.

“You forget yourself,” said Jonah. He gestured at Jon with the blade, shaking it at him as an owner might wag a finger at a disobedient pet. “I might not be presently under contract, but I still bear all the power I bargained and paid for, that I worked so hard to be blessed with. You? You’re no one. Less than no one, now that you’ve shaken off your ties to me. Left yourself soft, mortal, and fragile.”

Jon sighed, let his shoulders relax. He kept eye contact with every inch Jonah moved closer, though some deep, animalistic part of him wanted to run. He was no animal anymore, though, no insect. He was human. More, he was his own, with his own choices. He chose to hold his ground. “Yes,” he said. “You believe yourself so powerful. I’ve learned the truth, though, Jonah. Do you know what I’ve learned? Your greatest power is fear. You think you cannot be defeated, but that is because you only strike when you already have the upper hand, you lord yourself over the defenseless, the ignorant, and the frightened.” Jon took one step closer, and this actually seemed to halt Jonah’s advance in its tracks. “But I am not afraid of you anymore. I have known you too long to be ignorant. And I am not defenseless.” From his sleeve he withdrew his weapon: Martin’s silver butter knife, rounded and dull, not even fit to cut bread.

Jonah’s eyes drifted down, but any concern that might have betrayed him dissipated when he saw that would-be weapon. He barked out a laugh at it. “That? That is your secret weapon? My poor, foolish, pet.” He stepped forward, reached to grab Jon’s wrist. He seized him toward himself, to bring him to heel one last time before claiming his life. “You really believe you can kill me with--”

His words died in his mouth as he felt the blade, which should not be able to cut a thing were it not blessed by the hands of one Jon loved, plunge in between his ribs. Blood trickled up, reddened his lips. He reached uncertain, quivering fingertips up to his chin, felt the wetness that ran down there.

“I believe I can kill you with anything,” Jon whispered in his ear, holding him close to push the blade in deeper still. “Because you believe you cannot be killed, and I knew that would be your undoing. Death is more powerful than any master you can swear yourself to, and it will have its due.” Finally, he let him go.

Stunned, wounded, powerless for the first time that he could recall, Jonah staggered back from Jon. Stuck between his two once-servants, Jonah stumbled and fell upon his worktable, knocking several jars and his mortar and pestle to the ground. In futility, he reached up, choking on his blood in silent prayer to a master who would not deign to look upon him. Finally, the Mage Magnus, who always believed he had the upper hand, who Jon had allowed to believe that until the very last moment, crumpled to the floor, dead as any other man.

Gone.

He was finally gone.

With his death, the spell holding Gerry broke. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to Jon’s side just as he fell to his own knees.

Gone.

The Mage Magnus was gone.

He was gone.

Jon had waited for this so long. 

He should be happy.

Why wasn’t he happy?

Why was he weeping?

Gerry sat beside Jon, pulled him in close and rubbed his shoulders, whispered that he was here, that he loved him, that he’d done so well.

Jon didn’t feel like he’d done well.

He felt dirty.

Gone.

He was gone.

There was a hum in the air, the familiar electric ripple of magic, and Jon perked up, alert, anxious, ready for Jonah to rise, to retaliate against him for his insolence. He cowered in Gerry’s arms.

But a portal opened up in the room and it was Tim who stepped through, looking tired but unharmed. He dashed to Jon’s side. “You did it!” he cried. He laughed in joy. Gerry made room for Tim to gather Jon into his own embrace and kiss his temple. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I lied,” he choked out, huddled up against Tim. “I lied to him. I… told him I wasn’t afraid. I was afraid. I’m still afraid. He’s dead and I’m still afraid.”

“But you were so brave,” Gerry said, holding his hand. “You can be both.”

Jon leaned his head against Tim’s chest, stared at Jonah’s body, as though waiting for him to get up and punish him. Waiting for the expected pattern to reach its conclusion. “Do you want to know what the worst part is?” he whispered. “I hate him so much, and I’m so afraid of him. But now that he’s gone I feel like something’s… missing. I miss him. It’s disgusting.”

“Of course you do,” Gerry muttered bitterly. “He forced himself to be the center of our lives. It’s not about liking him. It’s not about caring. It’s about what a big absence he’s left behind, because he didn’t allow us room for anything else.”

Jon sniffled and nodded, his fingers tangled in the fabric of Tim’s tunic. Then he gasped softly. “Martin. I… we should go to Martin. He might need us.”

Sighing, Tim ran a hand down his face. “I want to. Gods, I want to more than anything. I’ve just… I’ve walked the In Between so many times today.” Tim relinquished Jon and struggled to right himself against the doorframe. The instant he was on his two feet, though, he swooned and collapsed.

“Tim!” Jon lunged forward to catch him, just barely made it. Hastily he checked him over, but it was clear he had merely fainted from the exertion of his magic over the course of the day. He sighed. “I guess… I guess we’ll just have to have faith in Martin, won’t we. There’s no way we’ll make it in time from here.”

Gerry nodded at that. “Maybe if Tim feels better in a bit we can try to reach him. For now, can you help me with something?”

“Anything,” said Jon.

***

About an hour later, Jon and Gerry stood outside the tower, back amidst the brush.

To one side of them, Tim lay on a makeshift bed of all of Jonah’s sheets and pillows, gently sleeping.

To the other was a small handcart. They’d loaded it up with all the things which they knew were people. The ficus, the tome, the candle, so many others. These would come home with them. When all this was over, they would search the books recovered from the lost library for answers. Maybe some of them could still be healed, be saved. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Otherwise, at least they could finally give them the merciful release they deserved.

Ahead stood the tower, a thorn against the world, stark against the sky. Once everything they needed was gathered up, Jon and Gerry had worked their way from the top to the bottom with candles in hand. They set fire to the hay pile in the loft. They set fire to the frame of Jonah’s bed and his bureaus. They set fire to all of his shelves of accursed grimoires and scrolls. Now they stood, hand in hand, and watched their prison burn. The stone would still stand of course, the bones of the thing left over, but flames curled and billowed from the roof and all the windows and the blaze claimed all of Jonah’s treasures and finery, all of the wood and paper, all of what had once been their lives, and burned it clean. It took with it, too, Jon’s old broken wings. It took with it Jonah’s broken body. Let the fire claim him. Let the wind have his dust and let the animals have his charred bones. Jon felt the heat against his face and the tears that tracked his cheeks. He felt Gerry’s hand warm and firm in his. Solemnly, they stood at the funeral pyre for what had once been their lives. In its wake, it would leave room for something else. Not an ending, but a beginning. 


	27. XXVII: Wicked Stepfather

Long, long ago, Martin once heard someone say that you can’t go home again. He hadn’t understood what that meant then. Standing on the crest of the hill above the capitol, he knew now. This was not his home. It did not open itself to welcome him into its melancholy comforting embrace. The fog was so thick now it breathed like smoke, dense in the lungs. Down below, the city was not alight with lanterns and cooking fires but the torches of mobs, whose enraged din could be heard even from here.

There had been an eerie quiet over the countryside, much more quiet than usual. Mills did not turn and carriages did not ride the roads. They had stopped off in Green Arches to grab a bite of food and rest a moment before forging on. There they had found the streets as vacant as the ones they’d seen at the Spiders’ Den. At first they thought the town abandoned, but the muffled clattering and murmuring from within the darkened homes told them that all were locking and boarding their doors and windows against intruders. The people were afraid. They knew not what they ought to be afraid of. Disquieting as the stillness had been, Martin thought he still preferred it over the chaos of Heartwood now.

He could hear them down there, calling for blood. His blood. Jon’s blood.

Peter had them all stirred up now.

Nervous, Martin swallowed, and turned to the women with him. “There’s a back way into the city. It’s how Jon and I got out in the first place. Hopefully Peter won’t have caught on and posted up guards.”

Georgie nodded at that, but her eyes were fixed on the gates. “Good. You and Daisy should head that way. She’ll watch your back.”

Frowning, Martin looked to Georgie. “What about you? We should stick together.”

“No, you need a distraction,” Melanie interjected. “You need cover.”

“You need diplomats,” Georgie stressed with her most winning smile. “It’s like I said before.”

“Propagandists, more like,” said Melanie, arms crossed.

“ _ Diplomats _ ,” Georgie reiterated. “Someone to reach out for you, put in a good word for you, sway people to your cause. Someone who can appeal on your behalf for aid. Your own people are against you because they’ve only heard one side of the story.” She cracked her knuckles, rolled her shoulders, then began to make her way downhill. “My wife and I, we trade in stories.”

“Please be careful,” Martin laid his pleas at her back.

Before joining her wife, Melanie clapped a reassuring hand on Martin’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine. It’s you who’s got to promise to be careful. We’re not the ones everyone wants dead.”

Martin swallowed. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he lied.

He was usually better at lying. He wasn’t used to seeing that look of worried uncertainty on people’s faces. “Right. Well, don’t let this be the last we see of you, yeah?” With that, Melanie jogged off after her wife, yelling, “Wait up, lovely!”

Watching them go, Martin let his shoulders sink. When he glanced at his side, at Daisy, already fully in her wolf form, he swore he could read skepticism in her canine eyes. “Don’t you start with me,” Martin said.

Daisy let out a low growl.

Accompanied by his guard dog, Martin crept the long way around the city wall, seeking that tiny, seldom-used gate mostly used by shepherds. Fortunately it seemed most of the citizens were rallied in the town square, far from here. More fortunate still, Martin had the cover of darkness on his side. It seemed no one had bothered to light most of the streetlamps and lights along the wall in the chaos. It was a full moon, but thick as the fog was its silver light could barely filter through it. Martin had always been good at stepping light and moving with little notice. He was able to spot the two guards posted up by the entry from afar. “Daisy,” he whispered. “Do you think you can draw them off without hurting them? I want as little blood spilled as possible tonight; the people already think me a traitor and I won’t give them more reason.”

When he turned to look upon Daisy though, she was stooped low, ears pressed back flat upon her head, but teeth bared.

Realization lit within Martin’s mind. “Oh. Oh, these… these are former colleagues of yours, aren’t they? Listen, Daisy, I know it’s hard to face them. Maybe you feel betrayed. Maybe they remind you of your life before but… I know you can change. I know you can be better than the person you used to be. I know this because you keep  _ trying _ to be. If there weren’t a chance for you to get better you wouldn’t even bother. This is your chance to start making amends. Helping me tonight… you’re going to help make sure a much worse person can’t hurt anyone else again. That’s a start, right? Can you do this?”

Daisy held her stance just a moment longer before she finally rose up, alert and ready, and lashed her tail in acknowledgement.

Martin nodded back. “Good. Thank you. Listen… the kingdom will remember your service. For what that’s worth. I’ll remember. When you lose them, if you lose them… meet me at the castle. I’ll need your defense when I face Peter. If you don’t see me at the servants’ entrance facing the sea, assume I’ve already gone inside. I’ll leave it open for you if I can. Good luck.”

Even as a wolf, Martin swore he could see a look in her eyes that said ‘you too’ before she darted off towards the gate.

In the dark of the night, with the soft tread of her paws, it was easy enough for Daisy to get up behind one of the guards. Neither spotted her until it was far too late. “Hey-!” one cried as Daisy lunged upon the other, threw him to the ground with all her weight. Rather than take a bite of him, however, it was the hilt of his sword she sank her teeth into. With a quick jerk of her head, she pulled it from its scabbard and bolted with it before the other guard could sink his own blade into her.

“What in every hell was  _ that _ !?” cried the first guard, pushing himself up off the ground.

“Does it matter? We need that damned sword back! Come on.”

As the two took off after Daisy, who already had a long lead on them, Martin saw his opportunity. He dashed to the gate, pushed the door open, and snuck inside.

Now within and far from the bustling square, Martin found the back half of the city just as empty and eerie as Green Arches had been. Ahead were the docks, usually bursting with life and labor, now quiet save for the lapping of the tides.

Martin walked the shoreline slowly towards the castle, keeping an eye out. 

The odds were against him, of course. What hope had he of defeating Peter without having taken his pact from him? He had to try, of course, for everyone’s sake. If Melanie and Georgie were successful in winning everyone over, at least perhaps he could die a martyr.

Still he wished he understood. Why had Peter gone to all this effort to defame him? Why had he dug in his heels so stubbornly and so long for a plan that demanded he spend so much time around people. Peter did seem to have a particular disdain for his fellow people. Then why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone? Why put himself in a position of power over others when he could scarce bother even going through the motions of leadership. It always seemed he’d much rather be at sea. 

Martin stared out over the water and his chest tightened.

Of course.

Peter’s ship.

Where would he keep his pact if his plan had failed and he needed to leave in short order? Why, he’d keep it at the place cared for most, that he kept the best guarded, a home which could leave with him should the need arise. Surely, the pact must be on the ship.

In fact, perhaps his pact  _ was _ the ship.

For one moment in the rush of his epiphany Martin had half a mind to row out there to it. Of course, if he sank the ship from upon it, he’d just as likely go down with it. No, best to press on towards the castle.

After all, a castle’s position is always strategic. Castle Blackwood’s fortified towers and parapets loomed over the bay for a reason. Now, to see if he could get up there before Peter got to him first.

***

They actually had a soapbox. Georgie was almost offended at how gauche it all was. Of course they had a soapbox. Amateurs.

“This is  _ exactly _ what our King Peter spent years protecting us against!” cried one man, perched upon their flimsy makeshift stage. “He knew the wickedness that lived in the heart of our prince! Now the prince has had congress with a devil! Now that he’s escaped his imprisonment, our people disappear in droves! We must find and slay the beast!” The crowed roared in agreement, prompting the man to scream over them at the top of his lungs. “And we must find and slay the wicked prince who would sacrifice his own people to his demon lover!” With this, the crowd was whipped into a frenzy.

Georgie sighed. She wasn’t offended, she was just exhausted. Time and again she’d seen this sort of chicanery. Big, brassy appeals to common decency, bolstered by sweeping accusations and condemnations.

Two could play at that game.

“Darling, look,” Melanie said, speaking low, leaning in. She nodded her head past the crowd.

In the midst of the square there was a fountain, in its center a statue of the Lady of the Forest, one of the gods meant to watch over Blackwood. She was a creature of tangled branches and brush, innocent creatures living within her. Her arms were outstretched to offer her bounty to the people, but also to warn them of the dangers her forests held.

Now  _ that _ was a stage.

Georgie took her wife by the hand and began to weave through the crowd. Everyone was packed in tight so it was no small feat. However, she was eventually able to make it to the fountain. The effort of wading through its waters, soaking her riding boots and trousers, did draw some attention from nearby people, baffled and curious. Further attention was drawn as Georgie began to climb the branches of the marble statue of the Lady of the Forest, some openly wondering if she was a blasphemer or merely manic with the fervor of the crowd. It wasn’t until Melanie took the hilt of one of her knives and hammered one of the fountain’s pipes out of position, spraying the next speaker to stand upon the soapbox, that attention turned to the fountain. All eyes fell on Georgie who stood upon the Lady’s outstretched arms, and braced herself upon the crown of leaves and flowers upon her head. 

“My countryfolk, hear me!” Georgie bellowed, her voice strong and controlled from years of performance. She leaned out over them, hanging onto the stone with one hand, and with the other, reaching out to them just as the lady did. “I shall not tell you what to think, I know we are all afraid, we are all desperate for answers. The only thing I ask of you, my fellow citizens, is to consider what I have to say! We are a smart people, we of the Nation of Blackwood! We are resilient, resourceful! We stand every day against the rages of the sea, the monsters of the forest and the ocean both, and lands that are rough to till and slow to yield! So I ask you, my brilliant neighbors and peers, to consider beyond what you’ve simply been told!” She panned her arm wide across the crowd, studied all their faces. “When you think back, when did most of our troubles begin? When did people begin to disappear? When did our worries with the monsters that surround or lands worsen? When did our culture of diligence and common courtesy turn to one of fear, paranoia, and isolation? If you are like me, if you have thought as I have thought, you will realize it was when Peter sat the throne.” She pointed, emphatically, back at the castle looming behind her in the distance. “Whose word but Peter’s do we have that our prince, a prince we once loved, is a traitor? Whose word but Peter’s do we have that it is this so-called Beast who is responsible for disappearances which began years before that Beast was ever sighted? Peter, an opportunist who wed into the royal family from our navy, only for our queen to coincidentally die shortly thereafter! Do you think it a coincidence too that our prince has not been allowed to step up to the throne ever since? Please, my people, my fellow countryfolk, I beg of you, your anger and your fear is justified, but it is also misplaced!”

There was murmuring in the crowd. Georgie could see Melanie weaving around among them, speaking low, exchanging words with some, helping to rile them up, redirecting their anger.

Georgie took a deep breath. She stood tall upon the statue. “If you still feel you must rally against Prince Martin, I cannot stop you. But who has always openly expressed his love for the people? Who has gladly walked among us, brought coin and a listening ear to the common folk, while a usurper king sits the throne and turns a cold shoulder to us in his stone tower? Please remember who has always cared for you, and who has never cared a bit until it served his lust for power to pretend to.”

The angry shouts were bubbling up again. But this time, this time the torches and pitchforks were pointed forth with great purpose. The crowd began to flow as a river flows. Or, perhaps, a landslide. It was cascading toward the Castle Blackwood, carrying all the people’s fear and anger with it.

Melanie stood in the fountain below, beaming up at Georgie. “You never stop amazing me, you know.”

A bit breathless, Georgie sat upon the statue’s arms and smiled down on her in turn. “I didn’t do much,” she said. “They already knew what they really believed, deep down. They just needed someone to remind them.”

***

Martin waited as long as he could for Daisy to join him. With no sign of her, he knew he had no choice but to press forward without her. His only hope was that she’d not been slain, only waylaid. With a prayer in his heart for her, he moved on, one hand on his sword and ready.

The door to the kitchens yawned open for Martin. He’d expected a lock. Expected anything, any kind of resistance. The only thing that met Martin’s arrival as he entered was the echo of his own footsteps. The fog hung even in here, a layer of it up to his ankles. With a sickness twisting inside, Martin was sure he knew where it came from now. And he was sure that everyone else in the castle was dead.

Peter would be waiting for him.

Martin could be as roundabout in his path as he liked, but any route to the battlements from here would necessarily take him through the main hall and out to the bailey. His only hope, he felt, as he dashed through the dining hall and corridors, would be if Peter were lying in wait in the throne room instead, hoping that Martin would come to him.

Of course, Peter was right there in the foyer, solitary and patient, hands folded. “Welcome home, my wayward son.”

“I’m not your son,” Martin spat.

“You’re not much of anything these days, it seems,” Peter said. He held his ground, unbothered by Martin’s approach. “Not my son, not a prince…”

Martin stood opposite Peter, stared him down. “No. I’m a king.”

Peter slowly raised one eyebrow. It was the most surprise he could muster. “My, but you have grown bold these days. You know, you can’t simply say things and make them so.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it,” said Martin. He held his blade tight. He wanted Peter to think he was preparing to try to fight him so that Peter would not move to block his egress.

“I said  _ you _ can’t,” Peter said. He pressed a hand to his chest. “I  _ can _ , by the power bestowed upon me by my patron, I can impose my will. Soon enough, too, I shall be done with all of this, with all of you, and I might finally realize my true will, my blessed century of solitude on the ocean, with only summoned constructs for sailors and only the waves and winds as my company.”

“You could have left!” Martin cried. “You could have left at any time! You didn’t have to insist on taking all of us down with you!”

“I did, if I wanted my immortality, and my master’s protection against the fickle sea,” said Peter. He perked up at the sound of approaching shouts, smiled slow like winter’s thaw. “Ah. And here they come now.”

Martin froze, listening to them. They were getting close. He could pick out little phrases like “burn him!”, “no more!” “off with his head!”

Peter gave one of his gentle little chuckles. “To think I was going to go through with all the trouble of a formal execution when I could just let them take care of you for me.”

Then they began to hear more as they began to bang on the doors and castle gates. When Martin heard the first cry of, “Death to Peter! Death to the usurper king! Long live King Martin!” his heart grew warm. By the gods, they’d actually done it. Georgie and Melanie had done it.

“You’ve already lost, Peter,” Martin said. “By this point, Jonah has probably fallen too. I will give you one chance to surrender.” At least, Martin hoped Jonah had fallen by now. But he had faith in Jon.

“No,” Peter said, with a rising desperation in his voice. All the gates were rattling against the force of an entire kingdom. “No, no. It’s not over yet. This is… I can use this. They’re unified, they’re as one. If I can still kill you…” He began to march towards Martin, hand outstretched. “If I kill you, I can take all of them with you.”

Martin was not fool enough to stand his ground and fight. Not here, not now. Once he’d tangled with a warlock one on one, and once was enough. Instead, Martin bolted, out the door towards the courtyard. Some people were audibly already pouring in through the servants’ entrance out back, where Martin had come, even as others still struggled with the front gates. Peter followed Martin in swift pursuit.

Breathless with the adrenaline, with the exertion, Martin bolted up the stairs. He knew, he knew he could not afford to let Peter lay a hand on him. He might not know precisely how Peter worked his magics, but he knew enough to be sure his touch would be certain death. A strangled cry escaped Martin as Peter snatched at his scabbard. Martin released his belt and let his sword fall rather than be caught by it. 

Now the only thing Martin was armed with was a dagger, a shortbow, and a single arrow. The dagger was too close quarters to try to fight with, he dare not face Peter with it unless he had to. The arrow, blessed by Tim, he needed for another purpose.

His heart thundered louder than his steps as he wove up the stairs of the turret which most closely overlooked the ocean. It was the primary point of defense from the castle walls against the bay. It was Martin’s only chance.

“You’re only trapping yourself up here!” Peter shouted after him. “Whatever you’re planning, you’re sealing your fate!”

He was probably right, Martin realized. He was cornered up here. He could make his move, he could weaken Peter enough to kill him by taking out his pact. His only hope would be to try to get in one good blow with the dagger once the deed was done, but striking that close would surely mean mutually assured destruction. If that didn’t work, he would have to count on his people to finish him off before he took too many down with them. Well, better a succession war than sudden death.

Martin came upon the roof and advanced on the parapet, looking out on the ocean. He had just enough of a lead on Peter to retrieve and draw his bow. In a moment of quick thinking, Martin lit the bow aflame upon a nearby torch. In any other arrow this would likely compromise it, but enchanted as it was, he knew its path would be true no matter what.

“Don’t you dare!” Peter bellowed behind him.

No time for second thoughts. The flames singed Martin’s hand as he released the bow, focused on Peter’s ship down below. This just as Peter full body slammed into Martin from behind. Martin let out a cry, flailing for balance, as he toppled over the edge, just barely catching the wall in his hands. He glanced down. It was such a long, long way to the rocks on the shore below.

For just a moment, Peter looked down on him, triumphant. “Farewell, Martin,” he said, and raised up a rock to smash Martin’s fingers, to break his grip.

Then a distant light caught his face. Peter looked up, squinting at first through the fog, then his eyes widened in horror.

In his precarious position, Martin dared to look back over his shoulder.

There on the bay he saw his ship aflame, the enchanted arrow having found its target without fail.

“No!” Peter cried. “ _ No! _ ”

Desperate, overwhelmed, Peter flung himself from the ramparts toward the sea. Perhaps in a moment of panic he’d thought he could still make it to his ship, to swim out and save it. Perhaps he’d thought the water would break the fall of his escape. Perhaps he was too shocked for there to be a single thought in his mind at all. No matter the cause of his sudden leap, the result was the same. King Peter was dashed to death on the rocks below.

Martin looked down on his body, took solace in knowing he would not harm another soul.

Then, unable to keep his grip any longer, he fell. 

He closed his eyes, tried to find peace in his heart in the fall.

His people would be safe.

Surely, Tim and Jon had won against their own enemies. He had faith.

They would even remember him well, once this was all over. Maybe that was enough. To be remembered with love.

Then Martin felt the pain.

Not the all over pain of being broken on the rocks, but a sharp and sudden pain in his arm, the tearing of skin, his shoulder popping out of place. He let out a yelp, then looked up for the cause.

Daisy was leaned halfway out the window, Martin’s arm caught in her jaws.

Stunned, Martin let out a sharp laugh. “You!”

With all her strength, Daisy hauled Martin back into the tower and onto the landing. There, while Martin cradled his injured arm, she slunk behind a curtain to finally shift back to human and make a makeshift toga of the heavy fabric. “Sorry,” she said, tying it in place. “I know you said no bloodshed but… couldn’t think of another way. So I had to bite you.”

“Thank you,” Martin gasped, tears running down his face. “Thank you. You saved my life, I’ll never forget it.”

A slight smile crept onto Daisy’s usually stoic face and settled there. “Hm. I’ve not heard that before. Could get used to it.”

Hurt, weak, but alive, very much alive, Martin got uneasily up to his feet and stumbled out toward the courtyard. There a crowd was pouring in. Fighting her way to the front came Melanie, and soon Georgie behind her. How the joy overshadowed their faces. Melanie retrieved a horn which hung on the wall to announce guests to the castle and blew it to draw the crowd’s attention. They all turned, and they regarded their once prince, now king-- free, alive, and more-or-less well. 

Martin looked upon them all and in as loud a voice as he could project, he cried, “King Peter is dead! And so long as I live, none shall do harm to the people of the Kingdom of Blackwood without answering to me! My beloved people, my countryfolk, we are free of cruelty tonight! We are freed as one!”

The cheers that arose were deafening, peppered with cries of, “Hail King Martin!” and “Long live the King!”

Martin hadn’t thought, long ago, that he wanted to be king. But if he could suffer their wounds for them and rejoice in their victories for them, he thought he could get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Only the epilogue remains. Thank you for your patience with the schedule changes. See you all there!


End file.
